*  flop 


[See  p.  208 


SYLVIA  SURVEYED  HER  WITH  A  SORT  OF  RAPTURE 


THE    SHOULDERS 
OF   ATLAS 

B  "Hovel 


BY 
MARY  E.  WILKINS  FREEMAN 

AUTHOR   OF 

"BY   THE   LIGHT  OF  THE   SOUL"    "THE   DEBTOR" 
"  JEROME  "    "  A   NEW  ENGLAND  NUN  "  ETC. 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

MCMVI  I  I 


r 


Copyright,  1908,  by  the  NEW  YORK  HERALD  Co. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  June,  1908. 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 


M1752S1 


THE 
SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 


CHAPTER  I 

HENRY  WHITMAN  was  walking  home  from  the 
shop  in  the  April  afternoon.  The  spring  was  very 
early  that  year.  The  meadows  were  quite  green, 
and  in  the  damp  hollows  the  green  assumed  a  violet 
tinge  —  sometimes  from  violets  themselves,  some 
times  from  the  shadows.  The -trees  already  showed 
shadows  as  of  a  multitude  of  bird  wings ;  the  peach- 
trees  stood  aloof  in  rosy  nimbuses,  and  the  cherry- 
trees  were  faintly  a-flutter  with  white  through  an 
intense  gloss  of  gold-green. 

Henry  realized  all  the  glory  of  it,  but  it  filled  him 
with  a  renewal  of  the  sad  and  bitter  resentment, 
which  was  his  usual  mood,  instead  of  joy.  He  was 
past  middle-age.  He  worked  in  a  shoe-shop.  He 
had  worked  in  a  shoe-shop  since  he  was  a  young 
man.  There  was  nothing  else  in  store  for  him  until 
he  was  turned  out  because  of  old  age.  Then  the 
future  looked  like  a  lurid  sunset  of  misery.  He  earn 
ed  reasonably  good  wages  for  a  man  of  his  years, 


RS    OF   ATLAS 

but  prices  were  so  high  that  he  was  not  able  to  save 
a  cent.  There  had  been  unusual  expenses  during 
the  past  ten  years,  too.  His  wife  Sylvia  had  not 
been  well,  and  once  he  himself  had  been  laid  up  six 
weeks  with  rheumatism.  The  doctor  charged  two 
dollars  for  every  visit,  and  the  bill  was  not  quite 
settled  yet. 

Then  the  little  house  which  had  come  to  him 
from  his  father,  encumbered  with  a  mortgage  as  is 
usual,  had  all  at  once  seemed  to  need  repairs  at 
every  point.  The  roof  had  leaked  like  a  sieve,  two 
windows  had  been  blown  in,  the  paint  had  turned 
a  gray-black,  the  gutters  had  been  out  of  order. 
He  had  not  quite  settled  the  bill  for  these  repairs. 
He  realized  it  always  as  an  actual  physical  incu 
bus  upon  his  slender,  bowed  shoulders.  He  came 
of  a  race  who  were  impatient  of  debt,  and  who  re 
garded  with  proud  disdain  all  gratuitous  benefits 
from  their  fellow-men.  Henry  always  walked  a  long 
route  from  the  shop  in  order  to  avoid  passing  the 
houses  of  the  doctor  and  the  carpenter  whom  he 
owed. 

Once  he  had  saved  a  little  money;  that  was 
twenty-odd  years  before;  but  he  had  invested  it 
foolishly,  and  lost  every  cent.  That  transaction  he 
regarded  with  hatred,  both  of  himself  and  of  the 
people  who  had  advised  him  to  risk  and  lose  his  hard- 
earned  dollars.  The  small  sum  which  he  had  lost 
had  come  to  assume  colossal  proportions  in  his  mind. 
He  used,  in  his  bitterest  moments,  to  reckon  up  on 
a  scrap  of  paper  what  it  might  have  amounted  to, 
if  it  had  been  put  out  at  interest,  by  this  time.  He 
always  came  out  a  rich  man,  by  his  calculations,  if 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

it  had  not  been  for  that  unwise  investment.  He  often 
told  his  wife  Sylvia  that  they  might  have  been  rich 
people  if  it  had  not  been  for  that;  that  he  would  not 
have  been  tied  to  a  shoe-shop,  nor  she  have  been 
obliged  to  work  so  hard. 

Sylvia  took  a  boarder — the  high-school  principal, 
Horace  Allen — and  she  also  made  jellies  and  cakes, 
and  baked  bread  for  those  in  East  Westland  who 
could  afford  to  pay  for  such  instead  of  doing  the  work 
themselves.  She  was  a  delicate  woman,  and  Henry 
knew  that  she  worked  beyond  her  strength,  and  the 
knowledge  filled  him  with  impotent  fury.  Since  the 
union  had  come  into  play  he  did  not  have  to  work  so 
many  hours  in  the  shop,  and  he  got  the  same  pay, 
but  he  worked  as  hard,  because  he  himself  cultivated 
his  bit  of  land.  He  raised  vegetables  for  the  table. 
He  also  made  the  place  gay  with  flowers  to  please 
Sylvia  and  himself.  He  had  a  stunted  thirst  for 
beauty. 

In  the  winter  he  found  plenty  to  do  in  the  extra 
hours.  He  sawed  wood  in  his  shed  by  the  light  of  a 
lantern  hung  on  a  peg.  He  also  did  what  odd  jobs 
he  could  for  neighbors.  He  picked  up  a  little  extra 
money  in  that  way,  but  he  worked  very  hard.  Some 
times  he  told  Sylvia  that  he  didn't  know  but  he  work 
ed  harder  than  he  had  done  when  the  shop  time  was 
longer.  However,  he  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  go, 
heart  and  soul,  with  the  union,  and  he  had  paid  his 
dues  ungrudgingly,  even  with  a  fierce  satisfaction, 
as  if  in  some  way  the  transaction  made  him  even  with 
his  millionaire  employers.  There  were  two  of  them, 
and  they  owned  houses  which  appeared  like  palaces 
in  the  eyes  of  Henry  and  his  kind.  They  owned  auto- 

3 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

mobiles,  and  Henry  was  aware  of  a  cursing  sentiment 
when  one  whirred  past  him,  trudging  along,  and 
covered  him  with  dust. 

Sometimes  it  seemed  to  Henry  as  if  an  automobile 
was  the  last  straw  for  the  poor  man's  back:  those 
enormous  cars,  representing  fortunes,  tyrannizing  over 
the  whole  highway,  frightening  the  poor  old  country 
horses,  and  endangering  the  lives  of  all  before  them. 
Henry  read  with  delight  every  account  of  an  auto 
mobile  accident.  "Served  them  right;  served  them 
just  right,"  he  would  say,  with  fairly  a  smack  of  his 
lips. 

Sylvia,  who  had  caught  a  little  of  his  rebellion,  but 
was  gentler,  would  regard  him  with  horror.  "Why, 
Henry  Whitman,  that  is  a  dreadful  wicked  spirit!" 
she  would  say,  and  he  would  retort  stubbornly  that 
he  didn't  care ;  that  he  had  to  pay  a  road  tax  for  these 
people  who  would  just  as  soon  run  him  down  as  not, 
if  it  wouldn't  tip  their  old  machines  over;  for  the'se 
maniacs  who  had  gone  speed-mad,  and  were  appro 
priating  even  the  highways  of  the  common  people. 

Henry  had  missed  the  high-school  principal,  who 
was  away  on  his  spring  vacation.  He  liked  to  talk 
with  him,  because  he  always  had  a  feeling  that  he  had 
the  best  of  the  argument.  Horace  would  take  the 
other  side  for  a  while,  then  leave  the  field,  and  light 
another  cigar,  and  let  Henry  have  the  last  word, 
which,  although  it  had  a  bitter  taste  in  his  mouth, 
filled  him  with  the  satisfaction  of  triumph.  He  loved 
Horace  like  a  son,  although  he  realized  that  the 
young  man  properly  belonged  to  the  class  which  he 
hated,  and  that,  too,  although  he  was  manifestly  poor 
and  obliged  to  work  for  his  living.  Henry  was,  in 

4 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

his  heart  of  hearts,  convinced  that  Horace  Allen,  had 
he  been  rich,  would  have  owned  automobiles  and 
spent  hours  in  the  profitless  work-play  of  the  golf 
links.  As  it  was,  he  played  a  little  after  school-hours. 
Ho\v  Henry  hated  golf!  "I  wish  they  had  to  work," 
he  would  say,  savagely,  to  Horace. 

Horace  would  laugh,  and  say  that  he  did  work. 
"I  know  you  do,"  Henry  would  say,  grudgingly,  "and 
I  suppose  maybe  a  little  exercise  is  good  for  you;  but 
those  fellers  from  Alford  who  come  over  here  don't 
have  to  work,  and  as  for  Guy  Lawson,  the  boss's  son, 
he's  a  fool!  He  couldn't  earn  his  bread  and  butter  to 
save  his  life,  except  on  the  road  digging  like  a  com 
mon  laborer.  Playing  golf !  Playing !  H  'm ! "  Then 
was  the  time  for  Horace's  fresh  cigar. 

When  Henry  came  in  sight  of  the  cottage  where 
he  lived  he  thought  with  regret  that  Horace  was 
not  there.  Being  in  a  more  pessimistic  mood  than 
usual,  he  wished  ardently  for  somebody  to  whom  he 
could  pour  out  his  heart.  Sylvia  was  no  satisfaction 
at  such  a  time.  If  she  echoed  him  for  a  while,  when 
she  was  more  than  usually  worn  with  her  own  work, 
she  finally  became  alarmed,  and  took  refuge  in  Scrip 
ture  quotations,  and  Henry  was  convinced  that  she 
offered  up  prayer  for  him  afterward,  and  that  en 
raged  him. 

He  struck  into  the  narrow  Toot-path  leading  to 
the  side  door,  the  foot-path  which  his  unwilling  and 
weary  feet  had  helped  to  trace  more  definitely  for 
nearly  forty  years.  The  house  was  a  small  cottage 
of  the  humblest  New  England  type.  It  had  a  little 
cobbler 's-shop,  or  what  had  formerly  been  a  cobbler 's- 
shop,  for  an  ell.  Besides  that,  there  were  three 

5 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

rooms  on  the  ground-floor — the  kitchen,  the  sitting- 
room,  and  a  little  bedroom  which  Henry  and  Sylvia 
occupied.  Sylvia  had  cooking-stoves  in  both  the 
old  shop  and  the  kitchen.  The  kitchen  stove  was 
kept  well  polished,  and  seldom  used  for  cooking, 
except  in  cold  weather.  In  warm  weather  the  old 
shop  served  as  kitchen,  and  Sylvia,  in  deference 
to  the  high-school  teacher,  used  to  set  the  table  in 
the  house. 

When  Henry  neared  the  house  he  smelled  cooking 
in  the  shop.  He  also  had  a  glimpse  of  a  snowy  table 
cloth  in  the  kitchen.  He  wondered,  with  a  throb  of 
joy,  if  possibly  Horace  might  have  returned  before  his 
vacation  was  over  and  Sylvia  were  setting  the  table 
in  the  other  room  in  his  honor.  He  opened  the  door 
which  led  directly  into  the  shop.  Sylvia,  a  pathetic, 
slim,  elderly  figure  in  rusty  black,  was  bending  over 
the  stove,  frying  flapjacks.  "Has  he  come  home?" 
whispered  Henry. 

"No,  it's  Mr.  Meeks.  I  asked  him  to  stay  to  supper. 
I  told  him  I  would  make  some  flapjacks,  and  he  acted 
tickled  to  death.  He  doesn't  get  a  decent  thing  to 
eat  once  in  a  dog's  age.  Hurry  and  get  washed.  The 
flapjacks  are  about  done,  and  I  don't  want  them  to 
get  cold." 

Henry's  face,  which  had  fallen  a  little  when  he 
learned  that  Horace  had  not  returned,  still  looked 
brighter  than  before.  While  Sidney  Meeks  never 
let  him  have  the  last  word,  yet  he  was  much  better 
than  Sylvia  as  a  safety-valve  for  pessimism.  Meeks 
was  as  pessimistic  in  his  way  as  Henry,  although  he 
handled  his  pessimism,  as  he  did  everything  else, 
with  diplomacy,  and  the  other  man  had  a  secret  con- 

6 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

viction  that  when  he  seemed  to  be  on  the  opposite 
side  yet  he  was  in  reality  pulling  with  the  lawyer. 

Sidney  Meeks  was  older  than  Henry,  and  as  un 
successful  as  a  country  lawyer  can  well  be.  He  lived 
by  himself;  he  had  never  married;  and  the  world, 
although  he  smiled  at  it  facetiously,  was  not  a  pleasant 
place  in  his  eyes. 

Henry,  after  he  had  washed  himself  at  the  sink 
in  the  shop,  entered  the  kitchen,  where  the  table  was 
set,  and  passed  through  to  the  sitting-room,  where 
the  lawyer  was.  Sidney  Meeks  did  not  rise.  He  ex 
tended  one  large,  white  hand  affably.  "How  are  you 
Henry?"  said  he,  giving  the  other  man's  lean,  brown 
ringers  a  hard  shake.  "I  dropped  in  here  on  my 
way  home  from  the  post-office,  and  your  wife  tempted 
me  with  flapjacks  in  a  lordly  dish,  and  I  am  about 
to  eat." 

"Glad  to  see  you,"  returned  Henry. 

"You  get  home  early,  or  it  seems  early,  now  the 
days  are  getting  so  long,"  said  Meeks,  as  Henry  sat 
down  opposite. 

"Yes,  it's  early  enough,  but  I  don't  get  any  more 
pay." 

Meeks  laughed.  "Henry,  you  are  the  direct  out 
come  of  your  day  and  generation,"  said  he.  "Less 
time,  and  more  pay  for  less  time,  is  our  slogan." 

"Well,  why  not  ?"  returned  Henry,  surlily,  still  with 
a  dawn  of  delighted  opposition  in  his  thin,  intelli 
gent  face.  "Why  not?  Look  at  the  money  that's 
spent  all  around  us  on  other  things  that  correspond. 
What's  an  automobile  but  less  time  and  more  money, 
eh?" 

Meeks  laughed.  "Give  it  up  until  after  supper, 

7 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Henry,"  he  said,  as  Sylvia's  thin,  sweet  voice  was 
heard  from  the  next  room. 

"If  you  men  don't  stop  talking  and  come  right  out, 
these  flapjacks  will  be  spoiled!"  she  cried.  The  men 
arose  and  obeyed  her  call.  "  There  are  compensa 
tions  for  everything,"  said  Meeks,  laughing,  as  he 
settled  down  heavily  into  his  chair.  He  was  a  large 
man.  "Flapjacks  are  compensations.  Let  us  eat 
our  compensations  and  be  thankful.  That's  my  way 
of  saying  grace.  You  ought  always  to  say  grace, 
Henry,  when  you  have  such  a  good  cook  as  your 
wife  is  to  get  meals  for  you.  If  you  had  to  shift  for 
yourself,  the  way  I  do,  you'd  feel  that  it  was  a  simple 
act  of  decency." 

"I  don't  see  much  to  say  grace  for,"  said  Henry, 
with  a  disagreeable  sneer. 

"Oh,  Henry!"  said  Sylvia. 

"For  compensations  in  the  form  of  flapjacks,  with 
plenty  of  butter  and  sugar  and  nutmeg,"  said  Meeks. 
"These  are  fine,  Mrs.  Whitman." 

"A  good  thick  beefsteak  at  twenty-eight  cents  a 
pound,  regulated  by  the  beef  trust,  would  be  more  to 
my  liking  after  a  hard  day's  work,"  said  Henry. 

Sylvia  exclaimed  again,  but  she  was  not  in  reality 
disturbed.  She  was  quite  well  aware  that  her  hus 
band  was  enjoying  himself  after  his  own  peculiar 
fashion,  and  that,  if  he  spoke  the  truth,  the  flapjacks 
were  more  to  his  New  England  taste  for  supper  than 
thick  beefsteak. 

"Well,  wait  until  after  supper,  and  maybe  you  will 
change  your  mind  about  having  something  to  say 
grace  for,"  Meeks  said,  mysteriously. 

The  husband  and  wife  stared  at  him.  "What  do 

8 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

you  mean,  Mr.  Meeks?"  asked  Sylvia,  a  little  nerv 
ously.  Something  in  the  lawyer's  manner  agitat 
ed  her.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  mysteries. 
Life  had  not  held  many  for  her,  especially  of  late 
years. 

Henry  took  another  mouthful  of  flapjacks.  ' '  Well , 
if  you  can  give  me  any  good  reason  for  saying  grace 
you  will  do  more  than  the  parson  ever  has,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  Henry!"  said  Sylvia. 

"It's  the  truth,"  said  Henry.  "I've  gone  to  meet 
ing  and  heard  how  thankful  I  ought  to  be  for  things 
I  haven't  got,  and  things  I  have  got  that  other  folks 
haven't,  and  for  forgiveness  for  breaking  command 
ments,  when,  so  far  as  I  can  tell,  commandments  are 
about  the  only  things  I've  been  able  to  keep  without 
taxes — till  I'm  tired  of  it." 

"Wait  till  after  supper,"  repeated  the  lawyer  again, 
with  smiling  mystery.  He  had  a  large,  smooth  face, 
with  gray  hair  on  the  sides  of  his  head  and  none  on 
top.  He  had  good,  placid  features,  and  an  easy  ex 
pression.  He  ate  two  platefuls  of  the  flapjacks,  then 
two  pieces  of  cake,  and  a  large  slice  of  custard  pie! 
He  was  very  fond  of  sweets. 

After  supper  was  over  Henry  and  Meeks  returned 
to  the  sitting-room,  and  sat  down  beside  the  two  front 
windows.  It  was  a  small,  square  room  furnished 
with  Sylvia's  chief  household  treasures.  There  was 
a  hair-cloth  sofa,  which  she  and  Henry  had  always 
regarded  as  an  extravagance  and  had  always  viewed 
with  awe.  There  were  two  rockers,  besides  one  easy- 
chair,  covered  with  old-gold  plush — also  an  extrav 
agance.  There  was  a  really  beautiful  old  mahog- 

9 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

any  table  with  carved  base,  of  which  neither  Henry 
nor  Sylvia  thought  much.  Sylvia  meditated  selling 
enough  Calkin's  soap  to  buy  a  new  one,  and  stow 
that  away  in  Mr.  Allen's  room.  Mr.  Allen  professed 
great  admiration  for  it,  to  her  wonderment.  There 
was  also  a  fine,  old,  gold-framed  mirror,  and  some 
china  vases  on  the  mantel-shelf.  Sylvia  was  rather 
ashamed  of  them.  Mrs.  Jim  Jones  had  a  mirror 
which  she  had  earned  by  selling  Calkin's  soap,  which 
Sylvia  considered  much  handsomer.  She  would  have 
had  ambitions  in  that  direction  also,  but  Henry  was 
firm  in  his  resolve  not  to  have  the  mirror  displaced, 
nor  the  vases,  although  Sylvia  descanted  upon  the 
superior  merits  of  some  vases  with  gilded  pedestals 
which  Mrs.  Sam  Elliot  had  in  her  parlor. 

Meeks  regarded  the  superb  old  table  with  apprecia 
tion  as  he  sat  in  the  sitting-room  after  supper.  ' '  Fine 
old  piece,"  he  said. 

Henry  looked  at  it  doubtfully.  It  had  been  in  a 
woodshed  of  his  grandfather's  house,  when  he  was  a 
boy,  and  he  was  not  as  confident  about  that  as  he 
was  about  the  mirror  and  vases,  which  had  always 
maintained  their  parlor  estate. 

" Sylvia  don't  think  much  of  it,"  he  said.  "She's 
crazy  to  have  one  of  carved  oak  like  one  Mrs.  Jim 
Jones  has." 

"Carved  oak  fiddlestick!"  said  Sidney  Meeks.  "It's 
a  queer  thing  that  so  much  virtue  and  real  fineness  of 
character  can  exist  in  a  woman  without  the  slightest 
trace  of  taste  for  art." 

Henry  looked  resentful.  "Sylvia  has  taste,  as 
much  taste  as  most  women,"  he  said.  "She  simply 
doesn't  like  to  see  the  same  old  things  around  all  the 

10 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

time,  and  I  don't  know  as  I  blame  her.  The  world 
has  grown  since  that  table  was  made,  there's  no  doubt 
about  that.  It  stands  to  reason  furniture  has  im 
proved,  too." 

"Glad  there's  something  you  see  in  a  bright  light, 
Henry." 

"I  must  say  that  I  like  this  new  mission  furniture, 
myself,  pretty  well,"  said  Henry,  somewhat  impor 
tantly. 

"That's  as  old  as  the  everlasting  hills;  but  the  old 
that's  new  is  the  newest  thing  in  all  creation,"  said 
Meeks.  "Sylvia  is  a  foolish  woman  if  she  parts  with 
this  magnificent  old  piece  for  any  reproduction  made 
in  job  lots." 

"Oh,  she  isn't  going  to  part  with  it.  Mr.  Allen 
will  like  it  in  his  room.  He  thinks  as  much  of  it  as 
you  do." 

"He's  right,  too,"  said  Meeks.  "There's  carving 
for  you;  there's  a  fine  grain  of  wood." 

"It's  very  hard  to  keep  clean,"  said  Sylvia,  as  she 
came  in  nibbing  her  moist  hands.  "Now,  that  new 
Flemish  oak  is  nothing  at  all  to  take  care  of,  Mrs. 
Jones  says." 

' '  This  is  worth  taking  care  of , "  said  Meeks.  ' '  Now, 
Sylvia,  sit  down.  I  have  something  to  tell  you  and 
Henry." 

Sylvia  sat  down.  Something  in  the  lawyer's  man 
ner  aroused  hers  and  her  husband's  keenest  attention. 
They  looked  at  him  and  waited.  Both  were  slightly 
pale.  Sylvia  was  a  delicate  little  woman,  and  Henry 
was  large-framed  and  tall,  but  a  similar  experience 
had  worn  similar  lines  in  both  faces.  They  looked 
singularly  alike. 

ii 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Sidney  Meeks  had  the  dramatic  instinct.  He  wait 
ed  for  the  silence  to  gather  to  its  utmost  intensity 
before  he  spoke.  "I  had  something  to  tell  you  when 
I  came  in,"  he  said,  "but  I  thought  I  had  better  wait 
till  after  supper." 

He  paused.  There  was  another  silence.  Henry's 
and  Sylvia's  eyes  seemed  to  wax  luminous. 

Sidney  Meeks  spoke  again.  He  was  enjoying  him 
self  immensely.  "What  relation  is  Abrahama  White 
to  you?"  he  said. 

"She  is  second  cousin  to  Sylvia.  Her  mother  was 
Sylvia's  mother's  cousin,"  said  Henry.  "What  of 
it?" 

"Nothing,  except — "  Meeks  waited  again.  He 
wished  to  make  a  coup.  He  had  an  instinct  for 
climaxes.  "Abrahama  had  a  shock  this  morning," 
he  said,  suddenly. 

"A  shock?"  said  Henry. 

Sylvia  echoed  him.     "A  shock!"  she  gasped. 

"Yes,  I  thought  you  hadn't  heard  of  it." 

"I've  been  in  the  house  all  day,"  said  Sylvia.  "I 
hadn't  seen  a  soul  before  you  came  in."  She  rose. 
"Who's  taking  care  of  her?"  she  asked.  "She  ain't 
all  alone?" 

"Sit  down,"  said  Sidney.  "She's  well  cared  for. 
Miss  Babcock  is  there.  She  happened  to  be  out  of  a 
place,  and  Dr.  Wallace  got  her  right  away." 

"  Is  she  going  to  get  over  it  ?"  asked  Sylvia,  anxious 
ly.  "I  must  go  over  there,  anyway,  this  evening.  I 
always  thought  a  good  deal  of  Abrahama." 

"You  might  as  well  go  over  there,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"It  isn't  quite  the  thing  for  me  to  tell  you,  but  I'm 
going  to.  If  Henry  here  can  eat  flapjacks  like  those 

12 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

you  make,  Sylvia,  and  not  say  grace,  his  state  of 
mind  is  dangerous.  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  Dr. 
Wallace  says  Abrahama  can't  live  more  than  a  day 
or  two,  and — she  has  made  a  will  and  left  you  all  her 
property." 


CHAPTER  II 

THERE  was  another  silence.  The  husband  and 
wife  were  pale,  with  mouths  agape  like  fishes.  So 
little  prosperity  had  come  into  their  lives  that  they 
were  rendered  almost  idiotic  by  its  approach. 

"Us?"  said  Sylvia,  at  length,  with  a  gasp. 

"Us?"  said  Henry. 

"Yes,  you,"  said  Sidney  Meeks. 

"What  about  Rose  Fletcher,  Abrahama's  sister 
Susy's  daughter?"  asked  Sylvia,  presently.  "She  is 
her  own  niece." 

"You  know  Abrahama  never  had  anything  to  do 
with  Susy  after  she  married  John  Fletcher,"  replied 
the  lawyer.  "She  made  her  will  soon  afterward,  and 
cut  her  off." 

"I  remember  what  they  said  at  the  time,"  returned 
Sylvia.  "They  all  thought  John  Fletcher  was  go 
ing  to  marry  Abrahama  instead  of  Susy.  She  was 
enough  sight  more  suitable  age  for  him.  He  was  too 
old  for  Susy,  and  Abrahama,  even  if  she  wasn't 
young,  was  a  beautiful  woman,  and  smarter  than 
Susy  ever  thought  of  being." 

"Susy  had  the  kind  of  smartness  that  catches 
men,"  said  the  lawyer,  with  a  slight  laugh. 

"I  always  wondered  if  John  Fletcher  hadn't  really 
done  a  good  deal  to  make  Abrahama  think  he  did 

14 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

want  her,"  said  Sylvia.  "He  was  just  that  kind  of 
man.  I  never  did  think  much  of  him.  He  was 
handsome  and  glib,  but  he  was  all  surface.  I  guess 
poor  Abrahama  had  some  reason  to  cut  off  Susy.  I 
guess  there  was  some  double-dealing.  I  thought  so 
at  the  time,  and  now  this  will  makes  me  think  so 
even  more." 

Again  there  was  a  silence,  and  again  that  expres 
sion  of  bewilderment,  almost  amounting  to  idiocy, 
reigned  in  the  faces  of  the  husband  and  wife. 

"I  never  thought  old  Abraham  White  should  have 
made  the  will  he  did,"  said  Henry,  articulating  with 
difficulty.  "Susy  had  just  as  much  right  to  the 
property,  and  there  she  was  cut  off  with  five  hundred 
dollars,  to  be  paid  when  she  came  of  age." 

"I  guess  she  spent  that  five  hundred  on  her  wed 
ding  fix,"  said  Sylvia. 

"It  was  a  queer  will,"  stammered  Henry. 

"I  think  the  old  man  always  looked  at  Abrahama 
as  his  son  and  heir,"  said  the  lawyer.  "She  was 
named  for  him,  and  his  father  before  him,  you  know. 
I  always  thought  the  poor  old  girl  deserved  the  lion's 
share  for  being  saddled  with  such  a  name,  anyhow." 

"It  was  a  dreadful  name,  and  she  was  such  a  beau 
tiful  girl  and  woman,"  said  Sylvia.  She  already  spoke 
of  Abrahama  in  the  past  tense.  "I  wonder  where  the 
niece  is,"  she  added. 

' '  The  last  I  heard  of  her  she  was  living  with  some 
rich  people  in  New  York,"  replied  Meeks.  "I  think 
they  took  her  in  some  capacity  after  her  father  and 
mother  died." 

"I  hope  she  didn't  go  out  to  work  as  hired  girl," 
said  Sylvia.  "It  would  have  been  awful  for  a  granc}- 


,    THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

daughter  of  Abraham  White's  to  do  that.  I  wonder 
if  Abrahama  never  wrote  to  her,  nor  did  anything 
for  her." 

"I  don't  think  she  ever  had  the  slightest  com 
munication  with  Susy  after  she  married,  or  her  hus 
band,  or  the  daughter,"  replied  Meeks.  "In  fact,  I 
practically  know  she  did  not." 

"If  the  poor  girl  didn't  do  well,  Abrahama  had  a 
good  deal  to  answer  for,"  said  Sylvia,  thoughtfully. 
She  looked  worried.  Then  again  that  expression  of 
almost  idiotic  joy  overspread  her  face.  "That  old 
White  homestead  is  beautiful  —  the  best  house  in 
town,"  she  said. 

"There's  fifty  acres  of  land  with  it,  too,"  said 
Meeks. 

Sylvia  and  Henry  looked  at  each  other.  Both 
hesitated.  Then  Henry  spoke,  stammeringly: 

"I — never  knew — just  how  much  of  an  income 
Abrahama  had,"  he  said. 

"Well,"  replied  the  lawyer,  "I  must  say  not  much — 
not  as  much  as  I  wish,  for  your  sakes.  You  see,  old 
Abraham  had  a  lot  of  that  railroad  stock  that  went 
to  smash  ten  years  ago,  and  Abrahama  lost  a  good 
deal.  She  was  a  smart  woman;  she  could  work  and 
save;  but  she  didn't  know  any  more  about  business 
than  other  women.  There's  an  income  of  about — 
well,  about  six  hundred  dollars  and  some  odd  cents 
after  the  taxes  and  insurance  are  paid.  And  she  has 
enough  extra  in  the  Alford  Bank  to  pay  for  her  last 
expenses  without  touching  the  principal.  And  the 
house  is  in  good  repair.  She  has  kept  it  up  well. 
There  won't  be  any  need  to  spend  a  cent  on  repairs 
for  some  years." 

16 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Six  hundred  a  year  after  the  taxes  and  insurance 
are  paid!"  said  Sylvia.  She  gaped  horribly.  Her 
expression  of  delight  was  at  once  mean  and  in 
fantile. 

"Six  hundred  a  year  after  the  taxes  and  insurance 
are  paid,  and  all  that  land,  and  that  great  house!" 
repeated  Henry,  with  precisely  the  same  expression. 

"Not  much,  but  enough  to  keep  things  going  if 
you're  careful,"  said  Meeks.  He  spoke  deprecating- 
ly,  but  in  reality  the  sum  seemed  large  to  him  also. 
"You  know  there's  an  income  besides  from  that  fine 
grass-land,"  said  he.  "There's  more  than  enough  hay 
for  a  cow  and  horse,  if  you  keep  one.  You  can  count 
on  something  besides  in  good  hay- years." 

Henry  looked  reflective.  Then  his  face  seemed  to 
expand  with  an  enormous  idea.  "I  wonder — "  he 
began. 

"You  wonder  what?"  asked  Sylvia. 

"I  wonder — if  it  wouldn't  be  cheaper  in  the  end  to 
keep  an — automobile  and  sell  all  the  hay^" 

Sylvia  gasped,  and  Meeks  burst  into  a  roar  of 
laughter. 

"I  rather  guess  you  don't  get  me  into  one  of  those 
things,  butting  into  stone  walls,  and  running  over 
children,  and  scaring  horses,  with  you  underneath 
most  of  the  time,  either  getting  blown  up  with  gaso 
lene  or  covering  your  clothes  with  mud  and  grease 
for  me  to  clean  off,"  said  Sylvia. 

"I  thought  automobiles  were  against  your  prin 
ciples,"  said  Meeks,  still  chuckling. 

"So  they  be,  the  way  other  folks  run  'em,"  said 
Henry;  "but  not  the  way  I'd  run  'em." 

"We'll  have  a  good,  steady  horse  that  won't  shy  at 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

one,  if  we  have  anything,"  said  Sylvia,  and  her  voice 
had  weight. 

"There's  a  good  buggy  in  Abrahama's  barn,"  said 
Meeks. 

Sylvia  made  an  unexpected  start.  "I  think  we  are 
wicked  as  we  can  be!"  she  declared,  violently.  "Here 
we  are  talking  about  that  poor  woman's  things  before 
she's  done  with  them.  I'm  going  right  over  there  to 
see  if  I  can't  be  of  some  use." 

"Sit  down,  Sylvia,"  said  Henry,  soothingly,  but  he, 
too,  looked  both  angry  and  ashamed. 

"You  had  better  keep  still  where  you  are  to-night," 
said  Meeks.  "Miss  Babcock  is  doing  all  that  any 
body  can.  There  isn't  much  to  be  done,  Dr.  Wallace 
says.  To-morrow  you  can  go  over  there  and  sit  with 
her,  and  let  Miss  Babcock  take  a  nap."  Meeks  rose 
as  he  spoke.  "I  must  be  going,"  he  said.  "  I  needn't 
charge  you  again  not  to  let  anybody  know  what  I've 
told  you  before  the  will  is  read.  It  is  irregular,  but 
I  thought  I'd  cheer  up  Henry  here  a  bit." 

"No,  we  won't  speak  of  it,"  declared  the  husband 
and  wife,  almost  in  unison. 

After  Meeks  had  gone  they  looked  at  each  other. 
Both  looked  disagreeable  to  the  other.  Both  felt  an 
unworthy  suspicion  of  the  other. 

"I  hope  she  will  get  well,"  Sylvia  said,  defiantly. 
"Maybe  she  will.  This  is  her  first  shock." 

"God  knows  I  hope  she  will,"  returned  Henry,  with 
equal  defiance. 

Each  of  the  two  was  perfectly  good  and  ungrasp- 
ing,  but  each  accused  themselves  and  each  other  un 
justly  because  of  the  possibilities  of  wrong  feeling 
which  they  realized.  Sylvia  did  not  understand  how, 

18 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

in  the  face  of  such  prosperity,  she  could  wish  Abra- 
hama  to  get  well,  and  she  did  not  understand  how  her 
husband  could,  and  Henry's  mental  attitude  was  the 
same. 

Sylvia  sat  down  and  took  some  mending.  Henry 
seated  himself  opposite,  and  stared  at  her  with  gloomy 
eyes,  which  yet  held  latent  sparks  of  joy.  "I  wish 
Meeks  hadn't  told  us,"  he  said,  angrily. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Sylvia.  "I  keep  telling  myself  I 
don't  want  that  poor  old  woman  to  die,  and  I  keep 
telling  myself  that  you  don't;  but  I'm  dreadful  sus 
picious  of  us  both.  It  means  so  much." 

"Just  the  way  I  feel,"  said  Henry.  "I  wish  he'd 
kept  his  news  to  himself.  It  wasn't  legal,  any 
how.  ' ' 

"You  don't  suppose  it  will  make  the  will  not  stand!" 
cried  Sylvia,  with  involuntary  eagerness.  Then  she 
quailed  before  her  husband's  stern  gaze.  "Of  course 
I  know  it  won't  make  any  difference,"  she  said,  fee 
bly,  and  drew  her  darning-needle  through  the  sock 
she  was  mending. 

Henry  took  up  a  copy  of  the  East  Westland  Gazette. 
The  first  thing  he  saw  was  the  list  of  deaths,  and  he 
seemed  to  see,  quite  plainly,  Abrahama  White's  among 
them,  although  she  was  still  quick,  and  he  loathed 
himself.  He  turned  the  paper  with  a  rattling  jerk 
to  an  account  of  a  crime  in  New  York,  and  the  diffi 
culty  the  police  had  experienced  in  taking  the  guilty 
man  in  safety  to  the  police  station.  He  read  the  ac 
count  aloud. 

"Seems  to  me  the  principal  thing  the  New  York 
police  protect  is  the  criminals,"  he  said,  bitterly. 
"If  they  would  turn  a  little  of  their  attention  to  pro- 

19 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

tecting  the  helpless  women  and  children,  seems  to 
me  it  would  be  more  to  the  purpose.  They're  awful 
careful  of  the  criminals." 

Sylvia  did  not  hear.  She  assented  absently.  She 
thought,  in  spite  of  herself,  of  the  good-fortune  which 
was  to  befall  them.  She  imagined  herself  mistress 
of  the  old  White  homestead.  They  would,  of  course, 
rent  their  own  little  cottage  and  go  to  live  in  the 
big  house.  She  imagined  herself  looking  through 
the  treasures  which  Abrahama  would  leave  behind 
her — then  a  monstrous  loathing  of  herself  seized  her. 
She  resolved  that  the  very  next  morning  she  would 
go  over  and  help  Miss  Babcock,  that  she  would  put 
all  consideration  of  material  benefits  from  her  mind. 
She  brought  her  thoughts  with  an  effort  to  the  article 
which  Henry  had  just  read.  She  could  recall  his  last 
words. 

"Yes,  I  think  you  are  right,"  said  she.  "I  think 
criminals  ought  not  to  be  protected.  You  are  right, 
Henry.  I  think  myself  we  ought  to  have  a  doctor 
called  from  Alford  to-morrow,  if  she  is  no  better,  and 
have  a  consultation.  Dr.  Wallace  is  good,  but  he 
is  only  one,  and  sometimes  another  doctor  has  differ 
ent  ideas,  and  she  may  get  help." 

"Yes,  I  think  there  ought  to  be  a  consultation," 
said  Henry.  "I  will  see  about  it  to-morrow.  I  will 
go  over  there  with  you  myself  to-morrow  morning.  I 
think  the  police  ought  not  to  protect  the  criminals, 
but  the  people  who  are  injured  by  them." 

"Then  there  would  be  no  criminals.  They  would 
have  no  chance,"  said  Sylvia,  sagely.  "Yes,  I  agree 
with  you,  Henry,  there  ought  to  be  a  consultation." 

She  looked  at  Henry  and  he  at  her,  and  each  saw 
20 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

in  the  other's  face  that  same  ignoble  joy,  and  that 
same  resentment  and  denial  of  it. 

Neither  slept  that  night.  They  were  up  early  the 
next  morning.  Sylvia  was  getting  breakfast  and 
Henry  was  splitting  wood  out  in  the  yard.  Presently 
he  came  stumbling  in.  "Come  out  here,"  he  said. 
Sylvia  followed  him  to  the  door.  They  stepped  out 
in  the  dewy  yard  and  stood  listening.  Beneath  their 
feet  was  soft,  green  grass  strewn  with  tiny  spheres 
which  reflected  rainbows.  Over  their  heads  was  a 
wonderful  sky  of  the  clearest  angelic  blue.  This 
sky  seemed  to  sing  with  bell-notes. 

"The  bell  is  tolling,"  whispered  Henry.  They 
counted  from  that  instant.  When  the  bell  stopped 
they  looked  at  each  other. 

"That's  her  age,"  said  Sylvia. 

"Yes,"  said  Henry. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  weather  was  wonderful  on  Abrahama  White's 
funeral  day.  The  air  had  at  once  the  keen  zest  of 
winter  and  the  languor  of  summer.  One  moment  one 
perceived  warm  breaths  of  softly  undulating  pines, 
the  next  it  was  as  if  the  wind  blew  over  snow.  The 
air  at  once  stimulated  and  soothed.  One  breathing 
it  realized  youth  and  an  endless  vista  of  dreams 
ahead,  and  also  the  peace  of  age,  and  of  work  well 
done  and  deserving  the  reward  of  rest.  There  was 
something  in  this  air  which  gave  the  inhaler  the  cer 
tainty  of  victory,  the  courage  of  battle  and  of  un 
assailable  youth.  Even  old  people,  pausing  to  notice 
the  streamer  of  crape  on  Abrahama  White's  door, 
felt  triumphant  and  undaunted.  It  did  not  seem  con 
ceivable,  upon  such  a  day,  that  that  streamer  would 
soon  flaunt  for  them. 

The  streamer  was  rusty.  It  had  served  for  many 
such  occasions,  and  suns  and  rains  had  damaged  it. 
People  said  that  Martin  Barnes,  the  undertaker,  ought 
to  buy  some  new  crape.  Martin  was  a  very  old  man 
himself,  but  he  had  no  imagination  for  his  own  funeral. 
It  seemed  to  him  grotesque  and  impossible  that  an 
undertaker  should  ever  be  in  need  of  his  own  minis 
trations.  His  solemn  wagon  stood  before  the  door 
of  the  great  colonial  house,  and  he  and  his  son-in-law 

22 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

and  his  daughter,  who  were  his  assistants,  were  en 
gaged  at  their  solemn  tasks  within. 

The  daughter,  Flora  Barnes,  was  arraying  the  dead 
woman  in  her  last  robe  of  state,  while  her  father  and 
brother-in-law  waited  in  the  south  room  across  the 
wide  hall.  When  her  task  was  performed  she  en 
tered  the  south  room  with  a  gentle  pride  evident  in 
her  thin,  florid  face. 

"She  makes  a  beautiful  corpse,"  she  said,  in  a  hiss 
ing  whisper. 

Henry  Whitman  and  his  wife  were  in  the  room, 
with  Martin  Barnes  and  Simeon  Capen,  his  son-in- 
law.  Barnes  and  Capen  rose  at  once  with  pleased 
interest,  Henry  and  Sylvia  more  slowly;  yet  they 
also  had  expressions  of  pleasure,  albeit  restrained. 
Both  strove  to  draw  their  faces  down,  yet  that  ex 
pression  of  pleasure  reigned  triumphant,  overcoming 
the  play  of  the  facial  muscles.  They  glanced  at  each 
other,  and  each  saw  an  angry  shame  in  the  other's 
eyes  because  of  this  joy. 

But  when  they  followed  Martin  Barnes  and  his 
assistants  into  the  parlor,  where  Abrahama  White 
was  laid  in  state,  all  the  shameful  joy  passed  from 
their  faces.  The  old  woman  in  her  last  bed  was 
majestic.  The  dead  face  was  grand,  compelling  to 
other  than  earthly  considerations.  Henry  and  Sylvia 
forgot  the  dead  woman's  little  store  which  she  had 
left  behind  her.  Sylvia  leaned  over  her  and  wept; 
Henry's  face  worked.  Nobody  except  himself  had 
ever  known  it,  but  he,  although  much  younger,  had 
had  his  dreams  about  the  beautiful  Abrahama  White. 
He  remembered  them  as  he  looked  at  her,  old  and 
dead  and  majestic,  with  something  like  the  light  of 

23 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

her  lost  beauty  in  her  still  face.  It  was  like  a  rose 
which  has  fallen  in  such  a  windless  atmosphere  that 
its  petals  retain  the  places  which  they  have  held 
around  its  heart. 

Henry  loved  his  wife,  but  this  before  him  was 
associated  with  something  beyond  love,  which  tended 
to  increase  rather  than  diminish  it.  When  at  last 
they  left  the  room  he  did  what  was  very  unusual 
with  him.  He  was  reticent,  like  the  ordinary  middle- 
aged  New-Englander.  He  took  his  wife's  little,  thin, 
veinous  hand  and  clasped  it  tenderly.  Her  bony  fin 
gers  clung  gratefully  to  his. 

When  they  were  all  out  in  the  south  room  Flora 
Barnes  spoke  again.  "I  have  never  seen  a  more 
beautiful  corpse,"  said  she,  in  exactly  the  same  voice 
which  she  had  used  before.  She  began  taking  off 
her  large,  white  apron.  Something  peculiar  in  her 
motion  arrested  Sylvia's  attention.  She  made  a  wiry 
spring  at  her. 

"Let  me  see  that  apron,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  which 
corresponded  with  her  action. 

Flora  recoiled.  She  turned  pale,  then  she  flushed. 
"What  for?" 

"Because  I  want  to." 

"  It's  just  my  apron.     I — " 

But  Sylvia  had  the  apron.  Out  of  its  folds  dropped 
a  thin  roll  of  black  silk.  Flora  stood  before  Sylvia. 
Beads  of  sweat  showed  on  her  flat  forehead.  She 
twitched  like  one  about  to  have  convulsions.  She 
was  very  tall,  but  Sylvia  seemed  to  fairly  loom  over 
her.  She  held  the  black  silk  out  stiffly,  like  a  bayonet. 

"What  is  this?"  she  demanded,  in  her  tense  voice. 

Flora  twitched. 

24 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"What  is  it?     I  want  to  know." 

"The  back  breadth,"  replied  Flora  in  a  small, 
scared  voice,  like  the  squeak  of  a  mouse. 

"Whose  back  breadth?" 

"Her  back  breadth." 

"Her  back  breadth?" 

"Yes." 

"Robbing  the  dead!"  said  Sylvia,  pitilessly.  Her 
tense  voice  was  terrible. 

Flora  tried  to  make  a  stand.  "She  hadn't  any  use 
for  it,"  she  squeaked,  plaintively. 

"Robbing  the  dead!  It's  bad  enough  to  rob  the 
living." 

"She  couldn't  have  worn  that  dress  without  any 
back  breadth  while  she  was  living,"  argued  Flora, 
"but  now  it  don't  make  any  odds.  It  don't  show." 

"What  were  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 

Flora  was  scared  into  a  storm  of  injured  confession. 
"You  'ain't  any  call  to  talk  to  me  so,  Mrs.  Whitman," 
she  said.  "I've  worked  hard,  and  I  'ain't  had  a 
decent  black  silk  dress  for  ten  years." 

"How  can  you  have  a  dress  made  out  of  a  back 
breadth,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"It's  just  the  same  quality  that  Mrs.  Hiram 
Adams's  was,  and — "  Flora  hesitated. 

"Flora  Barnes,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're 
robbing  the  dead  of  back  breadths  till  you  get  enough 
to  make  you  a  whole  dress?" 

Flora  whimpered.  "Business  has  been  awful  poor 
lately,"  she  said.  "It's  been  so  healthy  here  we've 
hardly  been  able  to  earn  the  salt  to  our  porridge. 
Father  won't  join  the  trust,  either,  and  lots  of  times 
the  undertaker  from  Alford  has  got  our  jobs." 
3  25 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Business!"  cried  Sylvia,  in  horror. 

"I  can't  help  it  if  you  do  look  at  it  that  way," 
Flora  replied,  and  now  she  was  almost  defiant.  "Our 
business  is  to  get  our  living  out  of  folks'  dying. 
There's  no  use  mincing  matters.  It's  our  business, 
just  as  working  in  a  shoe-shop  is  your  husband's 
business.  Folks  have  to  have  shoes  and  walk  when 
they're  alive,  and  be  laid  out  nice  and  buried  when 
they're  dead.  Our  business  has  been  poor.  Either 
Dr.  Wallace  gives  awful  strong  medicine  or  East 
Westland  is  too  healthy.  We  haven't  earned  but 
precious  little  lately,  and  I  need  a  whole  black  silk 
dress  and  they  don't." 

Sylvia  eyed  her  in  withering  scorn.  "Need  or 
not,"  said  she,  "the  one  that  owns  this  back  breadth 
is  going  to  have  it.  I  rather  think  she  ain't  going  to 
be  laid  away  without  a  back  breadth  to  her  dress." 

With  that  Sylvia  crossed  the  room  and  the  hall, 
and  entered  the  parlor.  She  closed  the  door  behind 
her.  When  she  came  out  a  few  minutes  later  she  was 
pale  but  triumphant.  "There,"  said  she,  "it's  back 
with  her,  and  I've  got  just  this  much  to  say,  and  no 
more,  Flora  Barnes.  When  you  get  home  you  gather 
up  all  the  back  breadths  you've  got,  and  you  do  them 
up  in  a  bundle,  and  you  put  them  in  that  barrel  the 
Ladies'  Sewing  Society  is  going  to  send  to  the  mis 
sionaries  next  week,  and  don't  you  ever  touch  a  back 
breadth  again,  or  I'll  tell  it  right  and  left,  and  you'll 
see  how  much  business  you'll  have  left  here,  I  don't 
care  how  sickly  it  gets." 

"If  father  would — only  have  joined  the  trust  I 
never  would  have  thought  of  such  a  thing,  anyway," 
muttered  Flora.  She  was  vanquished. 

26 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"You  do  it,  Flora  Barnes." 

"Yes,  I  will.     Don't  speak  so,  Mrs.  Whitman." 

"You  had  better." 

The  undertaker  and  his  son-in-law  and  Henry  had 
remained  quite  silent.  Now  they  moved  toward 
the  door,  and  Flora  followed,  red  and  perspiring. 
Sylvia  heard  her  say  something  to  her  father  about 
the  trust  on  the  way  to  the  gate,  between  the  tall 
borders  of  box,  and  heard  Martin's  surly  growl  in 
response. 

"Laying  it  onto  the  trust,"  Sylvia  said  to  Henry — 
"such  an  awful  thing  as  that!" 

Henry  assented.  He  looked  aghast  at  the  whole 
affair.  He  seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  dreadful 
depths  of  feminity  which  daunted  his  masculine 
mind.  "To  think  of  women  caring  enough  about 
dress  to  do  such  a  thing  as  that!"  he  said  to  himself. 
He  glanced  at  Sylvia,  and  she,  as  a  woman,  seemed 
entirely  beyond  his  comprehension. 

The  whole  great  house  was  sweet  with  flowers. 
Neighbors  had  sent  the  early  spring  flowers  from  their 
door-yards,  and  Henry  and  Sylvia  had  bought  a  mag 
nificent  wreath  of  white  roses  and  carnations  and 
smilax.  They  had  ordered  it  from  a  florist  in  Alford, 
and  it  seemed  to  them  something  stupendous — as  if 
in  some  way  it  must  please  even  the  dead  woman 
herself  to  have  her  casket  so  graced. 

"When  folks  know,  they  won't  think  we  didn't  do 
all  we  could,"  Sylvia  whispered  to  Henry,  significantly. 
He  nodded.  Both  were  very  busy,  even  with  assist 
ance  from  the  neighbors,  and  a  woman  who  worked 
out  by  the  day,  in  preparing  the  house  for  the  funeral. 
Everything  had  to  be  swept  and  cleaned  and  dusted. 

27 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

When  the  hour  came,  and  the  people  began  to 
gather,  the  house  was  veritably  set  in  order  and  bur 
nished.  Sylvia,  in  the  parlor  with  the  chief  mourners, 
glanced  about,  and  eyed  the  smooth  lap  of  her  new 
black  gown  with  a  certain  complacency  which  she 
could  not  control.  After  the  funeral  was  over,  and 
the  distant  relatives  and  neighbors  who  had  assisted 
had  eaten  a  cold  supper  and  departed,  and  she  and 
Henry  were  alone  in  the  great  house,  she  said,  and 
he  agreed,  that  everything  had  gone  off  beauti 
fully.  "Just  as  she  would  have  wished  it  if  she 
could  have  been  here  and  ordered  it  herself,"  said 
Sylvia. 

They  were  both  hesitating  whether  to  remain  in 
the  house  that  night  or  go  home.  Finally  they  went 
home.  There  was  an  awe  and  strangeness  over  them; 
besides,  they  began  to  wonder  if  people  might  not 
think  it  odd  for  them  to  stay  there  before  the  will 
was  read,  since  they  could  not  be  supposed  to  know 
it  all  belonged  to  them. 

It  was  about  two  weeks  before  they  were  regularly 
established  in  the  great  house,  and  Horace  Allen,  the 
high-school  teacher,  was  expected  the  next  day  but 
one.  Henry  had  pottered  about  the  place,  and  at 
tended  to  some  ploughing  on  the  famous  White 
grass-land,  which  was  supposed  to  produce  more  hay 
than  any  piece  of  land  of  its  size  in  the  county.  Henry 
had  been  fired  with  ambition  to  produce  more  than 
ever  before,  but  that  day  his  spirit  had  seemed  to  fail 
him.  He  sat  about  gloomily  all  the  afternoon;  then 
he  went  down  for  the  evening  mail,  and  brought 
home  no  letters,  but  the  local  paper.  Sylvia  was  pre 
paring  supper  in  the  large,  clean  kitchen.  She  had 

28 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

been  looking  over  her  new  treasures  all  day,  and 
she  was  radiant.  She  chattered  to  her  husband  like 
a  school-girl. 

"Oh,  Henry,"  said  she,  "you  don't  know  what 
we've  got!  I  never  dreamed  poor  Abrahama  had 
such  beautiful  things.  I  have  been  up  in  the  garret 
looking  over  things,  and  there's  one  chest  up  there 
packed  with  the  most  elegant  clothes.  I  never  saw 
such  dresses  in  my  life." 

Henry  looked  at  his  wife  with  eyes  which  loved  her 
face,  yet  saw  it  as  it  was,  elderly  and  plain,  with  all 
its  youthful  bloom  faded. 

"I  don't  suppose  there  is  anything  that  will  suit 
you  to  have  made  over,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  they 
are  dresses  she  had  when  she  was  young." 

Sylvia  colored.  She  tossed  her  head  and  threw 
back  her  round  shoulders.  Feminine  vanity  dies 
hard;  perhaps  it  never  dies  at  all. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  defiantly.  "Three  are 
colors  I  used  to  wear.  I  have  had  to  wear  black  of 
late  years,  because  it  was  more  economical,  but  you 
know  how  much  I  used  to  wear  pink.  It  was  real 
becoming  to  me." 

Henry  continued  to  regard  his  wife's  face  with 
perfect  love  and  a  perfect  cognizance  of  facts.  "You 
couldn't  wear  it  now,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know,"  retorted  Sylvia.  "I  dare  say  I 
don't  look  now  as  if  I  could.  I  have  been  working 
hard  all  day,  and  my  hair  is  all  out  of  crimp.  I  ain't 
so  sure  but  if  I  did  up  my  hair  nice,  and  wasn't  all 
tuckered  out,  that  I  couldn't  wear  a  pink  silk  dress 
that's  there  if  I  tone  it  down  with  black." 

"I  don't  believe  you  would  feel  that  you  could  go 
29 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

to  meeting  dressed  in  pink  silk  at  your  time  of  life," 
said  Henry. 

"Lots  of  women  older  than  I  be  wear  bright  colors," 
retorted  Sylvia,  "in  places  where  they  are  dressy. 
You  don't  know  anything  about  dress,  Henry." 

"I  suppose  I  don't,"  replied  Henry,  indifferently. 

"I  think  that  pink  silk  would  be  perfectly  suitable 
and  real  becoming  if  I  crimped  my  hair  and  had  a 
black  lace  bonnet  to  wear  with  it." 

"I  dare  say." 

Henry  took  his  place  at  the  supper- table.  It  was 
set  in  the  kitchen.  Sylvia  was  saving  herself  all  the 
steps  possible  until  Horace  Allen  returned. 

Henry  did  not  seem  to  have  much  appetite  that 
night.  His  face  was  overcast.  Along  with  his  scarce 
ly  confessed  exultation  over  his  good-fortune  he  was 
conscious  of  an  odd  indignation.  For  years  he  had 
cherished  a  sense  of  injury  at  his  treatment  at  the 
hands  of  Providence;  now  he  felt  like  a  child  who, 
pushing  hard  against  opposition  to  his  desires,  has 
that  opposition  suddenly  removed,  and  tumbles  over 
backward.  Henry  had  an  odd  sensation  of  having 
ignominiously  tumbled  over  backward,  and  he  missed, 
with  ridiculous  rancor,  his  sense  of  injury  which  he 
had  cherished  for  so  many  years.  After  kicking 
against  the  pricks  for  so  long,  he  had  come  to  feel  a 
certain  self-righteous  pleasure  in  it  which  he  was  now 
forced  to  forego. 

Sylvia  regarded  her  husband  uneasily.  Her  state 
of  mind  had  formerly  been  the  female  complement 
of  his,  but  the  sense  of  possession  swerved  her  more 
easily.  "What  on  earth  ails  you,  Henry  Whitman?" 
she  said.  ' '  You  look  awful  down-in-the-mouth.  Only 

30 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

to  think  of  our  having  enough  to  be  comfortable  for 
life.  I  should  think  you'd  be  real  thankful  and 
pleased." 

"I  don't  know  whether  I'm  thankful  and  pleased 
or  not,"  rejoined  Henry,  morosely. 

"Why,  Henry  Whitman!" 

"If  it  had  only  come  earlier,  when  we  had  time  and 
strength  to  enjoy  it,"  said  Henry,  with  sudden  relish. 
He  felt  that  he  had  discovered  a  new  and  legitimate 
ground  of  injury  which  might  console  him  for  the  loss 
of  the  old. 

"We  may  live  a  good  many  years  to  enjoy  it  now," 
said  Sylvia. 

"I  sha'n't;  maybe  you  will,"  returned  Henry,  with 
malignant  joy. 

Sylvia  regarded  him  with  swift  anxiety.  "Why, 
Henry,  don't  you  feel  well?"  she  gasped. 

"No,  I  don't,  and  I  haven't  for  some  time." 

"Oh,  Henry,  and  you  never  told  me!  What  is  the 
matter?  Hadn't  you  better  see  the  doctor?" 

"Doctor!"  retorted  Henry,  scornfully. 

"Maybe  he  could  give  you  something  to  help  you. 
Whereabouts  do  you  feel  bad,  Henry?" 

"All  over,"  replied  Henry,  comprehensively,  and 
he  smiled  like  a  satirical  martyr. 

"All  over?" 

"Yes,  all  over — body  and  soul  and  spirit.  I  know 
just  as  well  as  any  doctor  can  tell  me  that  I  haven't 
many  years  to  enjoy  anything.  When  a  man  has 
worked  as  long  as  I  have  in  a  shoe-shop,  and  worried 
as  much  and  as  long  as  I  have,  good-luck  finds  him 
with  his  earthworks  about  worn  out  and  his  wings 
hitched  on." 

31 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Oh,  Henry,  maybe  Dr.  Wallace — " 

"Maybe  he  can  unhitch  the  wings  ?"  inquired  Henry, 
with  grotesque  irony.  "No,  Sylvia,  no  doctor  living 
can  give  medicine  strong  enough  to  cure  a  man  of 
a  lifetime  of  worry." 

"But  the  worry's  all  over  now,  Henry." 

"What  the  worry's  done  ain't  over." 

Sylvia  began  whimpering  softly.  "Oh,  Henry,  if 
you  talk  that  way  it  will  take  away  all  my  comfort! 
What  do  you  suppose  the  property  would  mean  to 
me  without  you?" 

Then  Henry  felt  ashamed.  "Lord,  don't  worry," 
he  said,  roughly.  "A  man  can't  say  anything  to  you 
without  upsetting  you.  I  can't  tell  how  long  I'll 
live.  Sometimes  a  man  lives  through  everything. 
All  I  meant  was,  sometimes  when  good-luck  comes 
to  a  man  it  comes  so  darned  late  it  might  just  as 
well  not  come  at  all." 

"Henry,  you  don't  mean  to  be  wicked  and  un 
grateful?" 

"If  I  am  I  can't  help  it.  I  ain't  a  hypocrite, any 
way.  We've  got  some  good-fortune,  and  I'm  glad 
of  it,  but  I'd  been  enough  sight  gladder  if  it  had  come 
sooner,  before  bad  fortune  had  taken  away  my  rightful 
taste  for  it." 

"You  won't  have  to  work  in  the  shop  any  longer, 
Henry." 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  or  not.  What  in 
creation  do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  do  all  day — 
sit  still  and  suck  my  thumbs?" 

"-You  can  work  around  the  place." 

"Of  course  I  can;  but  there'll  be  lots  of  time  when 
there  won't  be  any  work  to  be  done — then  what? 

32 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

To  tell  you  the  truth  of  it,  Sylvia,  I've  had  my  nose 
held  to  the  grindstone  so  long  I  don't  know  as  it's  in 
me  to  keep  away  from  it  and  live,  now." 

Henry  had  not  been  at  work  since  Abrahama 
White's  death.  He  had  been  often  in  Sidney  Meeks's 
office;  only  Sidney  Meeks  saw  through  Henry  Whit 
man.  One  day  he  laughed  in  his  face,  as  the  two 
men  sat  in  his  office,  and  Henry  had  been  complain 
ing  of  the  lateness  of  his  good- fortune. 

"If  your  property  has  come  too  late,  Henry,"  said 
he,  "what's  the  use  in  keeping  it?  What's  the  sense 
of  keeping  property  that  only  aggravates  you  because 
it  didn't  come  in  your  time  instead  of  the  Lord's? 
I'll  draw  up  a  deed  of  gift  on  the  spot,  and  Sylvia  can 
sign  it  when  you  go  home,  and  you  can  give  the  whole 
biling  thing  to  foreign  missions.  The  Lord  knows 
there's  no  need  for  any  mortal  man  to  keep  anything  he 
doesn't  want — unless  it's  taxes,  or  a  quick  consump 
tion,  or  a  wife  and  children.  And  as  for  those  last, 
there  doesn't  seem  to  be  much  need  of  that  lately. 
I  have  never  seen  the  time  since  I  came  into  the 
world  when  it  was  quite  so  hard  to  get  things,  or  quite 
so  easy  to  get  rid  of  them,  as  it  is  now.  Say  the  word, 
Henry,  and  I'll  draw  up  the  deed  of  gift." 

Henry  looked  confused.  His  eyes  fell  before  the 
lawyer's  sarcastic  glance.  "You  are  talking  tom 
fool  nonsense,"  he  said,  scowling.  "The  property 
isn't  mine;  it's  my  wife's." 

"Sylvia  never  crossed  you  in  anything.  She'd 
give  it  up  fast  enough  if  she  got  it  through  her  head 
how  downright  miserable  it  was  making  you,"  re 
turned  the  lawyer,  maliciously.  Then  Sidney  re 
lented.  There  was  something  pathetic,  even  tragic, 

33 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

about  Henry  Whitman's  sheer  inability  to  enjoy  as 
he  might  once  have  done  the  good  things  of  life, 
and  his  desperate  clutch  of  them  in  flat  contradic 
tion  to  his  words.  "Let's  drop  it,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"I'm  glad  you  have  the  property  and  can  have  a 
little  ease,  even  if  it  doesn't  mean  to  you  what  it  once 
would.  Let's  have  a  glass  of  that  grape  wine." 

Sidney  Meeks  had  his  own  small  amusement  in  the 
world.  He  was  one  of  those  who  cannot  exist  with 
out  one,  and  in  lieu  of  anything  else  he  had  turned 
early  in  life  toward  making  wines  from  many  things 
which  his  native  soil  produced.  He  had  become 
reasonably  sure,  at  an  early  age,  that  he  should 
achieve  no  great  success  in  his  profession.  Indeed, 
he  was  lazily  conscious  that  he  had  no  fierce  ambition 
to  do  so.  Sidney  Meeks  was  not  an  ambitious  man 
in  large  matters.  But  he  had  taken  immense  com 
fort  in  toiling  in  a  little  vineyard  behind  his  house, 
and  also  in  making  curious  wines  and  cordials  from 
many  unusual  ingredients.  Sidney  had  stored  in 
his  cellar  wines  from  elder  flowers,  from  elderberries, 
from  daisies,  from  rhubarb,  from  clover,  and  currants, 
and  many  other  fruits  and  flowers,  besides  grapes. 
He  was  wont  to  dispense  these  curious  brews  to  his 
callers  with  great  pride.  But  he  took  especial  pride 
in  a  grape  wine  which  he  had  made  from  selected 
grapes  thirty  years  ago.  This  wine  had  a  peculiar 
bouquet  due  to  something  which  Sidney  had  added 
to  the  grape- juice,  the  secret  of  which  he  would  never 
divulge. 

It  was  some  of  this  golden  wine  which  Sidney  now 
produced.  Henry  drank  two  glasses,  and  the  tense 
muscles  around  his  mouth  relaxed.  Sidney  smiled. 

34 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Don't  know  what  gives  it  that  scent  and  taste,  do 
you?"  asked  Sidney.  "Well,  I  know.  It's  simple 
enough,  but  nobody  except  Sidney  Meeks  has  ever 
found  it  out.  I  tell  you,  Henry,  if  a  man  hasn't  set 
the  river  on  fire,  realized  his  youthful  dreams,  and 
all  that,  it  is  something  to  have  found  out  some 
thing  that  nobody  else  has,  no  matter  how  little  it  is, 
if  you  have  got  nerve  enough  to  keep  it  to  yourself." 

Henry  fairly  laughed.  His  long,  hollow  cheeks 
were  slightly  flushed.  When  he  got  home  that  night 
he  looked  pleasantly  at  Sylvia,  preparing  supper. 
But  Sylvia  did  not  look  as  radiant  as  she  had  done 
since  her  good-fortune.  She  said  nothing  ailed  her, 
in  response  to  his  inquiry  as  to  whether  she  felt  well 
or  not,  but  she  continued  gloomy  and  taciturn,  which 
was  most  unusual  with  her,  especially  of  late. 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  you,  Sylvia  ?" 
Henry  asked.  The  influence  of  Sidney  Meeks's  wine 
had  not  yet  departed  from  him.  His  cheeks  were 
still  flushed,  his  eyes  brilliant. 

Then  Sylvia  roused  herself.  "Nothing  is  the  mat 
ter,"  she  replied,  irritably,  and  immediately  she 
became  so  gay  that  had  Henry  himself  been  in  his 
usual  mood  he  would  have  been  as  much  astonished 
as  by  her  depression.  Sylvia  began  talking  and 
laughing,  relating  long  stories  of  new  discoveries 
which  she  had  made  in  the  house,  planning  for  Horace 
Allen's  return. 

"He's  going  to  have  that  big  southwest  room  and 
the  little  one  out  of  it,"  Sylvia  said.  "To-morrow 
you  must  get  the  bed  moved  into  the  little  one,  and 
I'll  get  the  big  room  fixed  up  for  a  study.  He'll  be 
tickled  to  pieces.  There's  beautiful  furniture  in 

35 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

the  room  now.  I  suppose  he'll  think  it's  beautiful. 
It's  terrible  old-fashioned.  I'd  rather  have  a  nice 
new  set  of  bird's-eye  maple  to  my  taste,  and  a  brass 
bedstead,  but  I  know  he'll  like  this  better.  It's  solid 
old  mahogany." 

"Yes,  he'll  be  sure  to  like  it,"  assented  Henry. 

After  supper,  although  Sylvia  did  not  relapse  into 
her  taciturn  mood,  Henry  went  and  sat  by  himself 
on  the  square  colonial  porch  on  the  west  side  of  the 
house.  He  sat  gazing  at  the  sky  and  the  broad  acres 
of  grass-land.  Presently  he  heard  feminine  voices 
in  the  house,  and  knew  that  two  of  the  neighbors, 
Mrs.  Jim  Jones  and  Mrs.  Sam  Elliot,  had  called  to  see 
Sylvia.  He  resolved  that  he  would  stay  where  he 
was  until  they  were  gone.  He  loved  Sylvia,  but 
women  in  the  aggregate  disturbed  and  irritated  him; 
and  for  him  three  women  were  sufficient  to  constitute 
an  aggregate. 

Henry  sat  on  the  fine  old  porch  with  its  sym 
metrical  pillars.  He  had  an  arm-chair  which  he  tilted 
back  against  the  house  wall,  and  he  was  exceedingly 
comfortable.  The  air  was  neither  warm  nor  cold. 
There  was  a  clear  red  in  the  west  and  only  one  rose- 
tinged  cloud  the  shape  of  a  bird's  wing.  He  could 
hear  the  sunset  calls  of  birds  and  the  laughter  of 
children.  Once  a  cow  lowed.  A  moist  sense  of 
growing  things,  the  breath  of  spring,  came  into  his 
nostrils.  Henry  realized  that  he  was  very  happy. 
He  realized  for  the  first  time,  with  peaceful  content, 
not  with  joy  so  turbulent  that  it  was  painful  and 
rebellious,  that  he  and  his  wife  owned  this  grand  old 
house  and  all  those  fair  acres.  He  was  filled  with 
that  great  peace  of  possession  which  causes  a  man 

36 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

to  feel  that  he  is  safe  from  the  ills  of  life.  Henry 
felt  fenced  in  and  guarded.  Then  suddenly  the  sense 
of  possession  upon  earth  filled  his  whole  soul  with  the 
hope  of  possession  after  death.  Henry  felt,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  as  if  he  had  a  firm  standing- 
ground  for  faith.  For  the  first  time  he  looked  at  the 
sunset  sky,  he  listened  to  the  birds  and  children,  he 
smelled  the  perfume  of  the  earth,  and  there  was  no 
bitterness  in  his  soul.  He  smiled  a  smile  of  utter 
peace  which  harmonized  with  it  all,  and  the  convic 
tion  of  endless  happiness  and  a  hereafter  seemed  to 
expand  all  his  consciousness. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  dining-room  in  the  White  homestead  was  a 
large,  low  room  whose  southward  windows  were  shaded 
at  this  season  with  a  cloud  of  gold -green  young 
grape  leaves.  The  paper  was  a  nondescript  pattern, 
a  large  satin  scroll  on  white.  The  room  was  wain 
scoted  in  white,  and  the  panel-work  around  the  great 
chimney  was  beautiful.  A  Franklin  stove  with  a  pat 
tern  of  grape-vines  was  built  into  the  chimney  under 
the  high  mantel.  Sylvia  regarded  this  dubiously. 

"I  don't  think  much  of  that  old-fashioned  Franklin 
stove,"  she  told  Henry.  "Why  Abrahama  had  it  left 
in,  after  she  had  her  nice  furnace,  beats  me.  Seems 
to  me  we  had  better  have  it  taken  out,  and  have  a 
nice  board,  covered  with  paper  to  match  this  on  the 
room,  put  there  instead.  There's  a  big  roll  of  the 
paper  up  garret,  and  it  ain't  faded  a  mite." 

"Mr.  Allen  will  like  it  just  the  way  it  is,"  said 
Henry,  regarding  the  old  stove  with  a  sneaking  ad 
miration  of  which  he  was  ashamed.  It  had  always 
seemed  to  him  that  Sylvia's  taste  must  be  better  than 
his.  He  had  always  thought  vaguely  of  women  as 
creatures  of  taste. 

"I  think  maybe  he'll  like  a  fire  in  it  sometimes," 
he  said,  timidly. 

"A  fire,  when  there's  a  furnace?" 

38 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  mean  chilly  days  in  the  fall,  before  we  start  the 
furnace." 

"Then  we  could  have  that  nice  air-tight  that  we 
had  in  the  other  house  put  up.  If  we  had  a  fire  in 
this  old  thing  the  heat  would  all  go  up  chimney." 

"But  it  would  look  kind  of  pretty." 

"I  was  brought  up  to  think  a  fire  was  for  warmth, 
not  for  looks,"  said  Sylvia,  tartly.  She  had  lost  the 
odd  expression  which  Henry  had  dimly  perceived 
several  days  before,  or  she  was  able  to  successfully 
keep  it  in  abeyance;  still,  there  was  no  doubt  that 
a  strange  and  subtle  change  had  occurred  within  the 
woman.  Henry  was  constantly  looking  at  her  when 
she  spoke,  because  he  vaguely  detected  unwonted 
tones  in  her  familiar  voice;  that  voice  which  had 
come  to  seem  almost  as  his  own.  He  was  constantly 
surprised  at  a  look  in  the  familiar  eyes,  which  had 
seemed  heretofore  to  gaze  at  life  in  entire  unison  with 
his  own. 

He  often  turned  upon  Sylvia  and  asked  her  abruptly 
if  she  did  not  feel  well,  and  what  was  the  matter;  and 
when  she  replied,  as  she  always  did,  that  nothing 
whatever  was  the  matter,  continued  to  regard  her 
with  a  frown  of  perplexity,  from  which  she  turned 
with  a  switch  of  her  skirts  and  a  hitch  of  her  slender 
shoulders.  Sylvia,  while  she  still  evinced  exultation 
over  her  new  possessions,  seemed  to  do  so  fiercely 
and  defiantly. 

When  Horace  Allen  arrived  she  greeted  him,  and 
ushered  him  into  her  new  domain  with  a  pride  which 
had  in  it  something  almost  repellent.  At  supper- 
time  she  led  him  into  the  dining-room  and  glanced 
around,  then  at  him. 

39 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Well,"  said  she,  "don't  you  think  it  was  about 
time  we  had  something  nice  like  this,  after  we  had 
pulled  and  tugged  for  nothing  all  our  lives?  Don't 
you  think  we  deserve  it  if  anybody  does?" 

"I  certainly  do,"  replied  Horace  Allen,  warmly; 
yet  he  regarded  her  with  somewhat  the  same  look  of 
astonishment  as  Henry.  It  did  not  seem  to  him  that 
it  could  be  Sylvia  Whitman  who  was  speaking.  The 
thought  crossed  his  mind,  as  he  took  his  place  at  the 
table,  that  possibly  coming  late  in  life,  after  so  many 
deprivations,  good-fortune  had  disturbed  temporarily 
the  even  balance  of  her  good  New  England  sense. 

Then  he  looked  about  him  with  delight.  "I  say, 
this  is  great!"  he  cried,  boyishly.  There  was  some 
thing  incurably  boyish  about  Horace  Allen,  although 
he  was  long  past  thirty.  "By  George,  that  Chippen 
dale  sideboard  is  a  beauty,"  he  said,  gazing  across 
at  a  fine  old  piece  full  of  dull  high  lights  across  its 
graceful  surfaces. 

Sylvia  colored  with  pleasure,  but  she  had  been 
brought  up  to  disclaim  her  possessions  to  others  than 
her  own  family.  ' '  Mrs.  Jim  Jones  has  got  a  beautiful 
one  she  bought  selling  Calkin's  soap,"  she  said.  "She 
thinks  it's  prettier  than  this,  and  I  must  say  it's  real 
handsome.  It's  solid  oak  and  has  a  looking-glass  on 
it.  This  hasn't  got  any  glass." 

Horace  laughed.  He  gazed  at  a  corner-closet  with 
diamond-paned  doors. 

"That  is  a  perfectly  jolly  closet,  too,"  he  said; 
"and  those  are  perfect  treasures  of  old  dishes." 

"I  think  they  are  rather  pretty,"  said  Henry.  He 
was  conscious  of  an  admiration  for  the  old  blue-and- 
white  ware  with  its  graceful  shapes  and  quaint  decora- 

40 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

tions  savoring  of  mystery  and  the  Far  East,  but  he 
realized  that  his  view  was  directly  opposed  to  his 
wife's.  This  time  Sylvia  spoke  quite  in  earnest.  As 
far  as  the  Indian  china  was  concerned,  she  had  her 
convictions.  She  was  a  cheap  realist  to  the  bone. 

She  sniffed.  "I  suppose  there's  those  that  likes  it," 
said  she,  "but  as  for  me,  I  can't  see  how  anybody 
with  eyes  in  their  heads  can  look  twice  at  old,  cloudy, 
blue  stuff  like  that  when  they  can  have  nice,  clear, 
white  ware,  with  flowers  on  it  that  are  flowers,  like 
this  Calkin's  soap  set.  There  ain't  a  thing  on  the 
china  in  that  closet  that's  natural.  Whoever  saw  a 
prospect  all  in  blue,  the  trees  and  plants,  and  heathen 
houses,  and  the  heathen,  all  blue?  I  like  things  to 
be  natural,  myself." 

Horace  laughed,  and  extended  his  plate  for  an 
other  piece  of  pie. 

"It's  an  acquired  taste,"  he  said. 

"I  never  had  any  time  to  acquire  tastes.  I  kept 
what  the  Lord  gave  me,"  said  Sylvia,  but  she  smiled. 
She  was  delighted  because  Horace  had  taken  a  second 
piece  of  pie. 

"I  didn't  know  as  you'd  relish  our  fare  after  living 
in  a  Boston  hotel  all  your  vacation,"  said  she. 

"People  can  talk  about  hotel  tables  all  they  want 
to,"  declared  Horace.  "Give  me  home  cooking  like 
yours  every  time.  I  haven't  eaten  a  blessed  thing 
that  tasted  good  since  I  went  away." 

Henry  and  Sylvia  looked  lovingly  at  Horace.  He 
was  a  large  man,  blond,  with  a  thick  shock  of  fair 
hair,  and  he  wore  gray  tweeds  rather  loose  for  him, 
which  had  always  distressed  Sylvia.  She  had  often 
told  Henry  that  it  seemed  to  her  if  he  would  wear  a 

4  4I 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

nice  suit  of  black  broadcloth  it  would  be  more  in 
keeping  with  his  position  as  high-school  principal. 
He  wore  a  red  tie,  too,  and  Sylvia  had  an  inborn 
conviction  that  red  was  not  to  be  worn  by  fair  peo 
ple,  male  or  female. 

However,  she  loved  and  admired  Horace  in  spite 
of  these  minor  drawbacks,  and  had  a  fiercely  maternal 
impulse  of  protection  towards  him.  She  was  con 
vinced  that  every  mother  in  East  Westland,  with  a 
marriageable  daughter,  and  every  daughter,  had  mat 
rimonial  designs  upon  him;  and  she  considered  that 
none  of  them  were  good  enough  for  him.  She  did 
not  wish  him  to  marry  in  any  case.  She  had  suspicions 
about  young  women  whom  he  might  have  met  while 
on  his  vacation. 

After  supper,  when  the  dishes  had  been  cleared 
away,  and  they  sat  in  the  large  south  room,  and 
Horace  had  admired  that  and  its  furnishings,  Sylvia 
led  up  to  the  subject. 

"I  suppose  you  know  a  good  many  people  in  Bos 
ton,"  she  remarked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Horace.  "You  know,  I  was  born 
and  brought  up  and  educated  there,  and  lived  there 
until  my  people  died." 

"I  suppose  you  know  a  good  many  young  ladies." 

"Thousands,"  said  Horace;  "but  none  of  them  will 
look  at  me." 

"You  didn't  ask  them?" 

"Not  all,  only  a  few,  but  they  wouldn't." 

"I'd  like  to  know  why  not?" 

Then  Henry  spoke.  "Sylvia,"  he  said,  "Mr.  Allen 
is  only  joking." 

"I  hope  he  is,"  Sylvia  said,  severely.  "He's  too 
42 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

young  to  think  of  getting  married.  It  makes  me 
sick,  though,  to  see  the  way  girls  chase  any  man, 
and  their  mothers,  too,  for  that  matter.  Mrs.  Jim 
Jones  and  Mrs.  Sam  Elliot  both  came  while  you  were 
gone,  Mr.  Allen.  They  said  they  thought  maybe  we 
wouldn't  take  a  boarder  now  we  have  come  into 
property,  and  maybe  you  would  like  to  go  there,  and 
I  knew  just  as  well  as  if  they  had  spoken  what  they 
had  in  their  minds.  There's  Minnie  Jones  as  homely 
as  a  broom,  and  there's  Carrie  Elliot  getting  older, 
and—" 

"Sylvia!"  said  Henry. 

"I  don't  care.  Mr.  Allen  knows  what's  going  on 
just  as  well  as  I  do.  Neither  of  those  women  can 
cook  fit  for  a  cat  to  eat,  let  alone  anything  else.  Lucy 
Ayres  came  here  twice  on  errands,  too,  and — " 

But  Horace  colored,  and  spoke  suddenly.  ' '  I  didn't 
know  that  you  would  take  me  back,"  he  said.  "I 
was  afraid — " 

"We  don't  need  to,  as  far  as  money  goes,"  said 
Sylvia,  "but  Mr.  Whitman  and  I  like  to  have  the 
company,  and  you  never  make  a  mite  of  trouble. 
That's  what  I  told  Mrs.  Jim  Jones  and  Mrs.  Sam 
Elliot." 

"I'm  glad  he's  got  back,"  Henry  said,  after  Horace 
had  gone  up-stairs  for  the  night  and  the  couple  were 
in  their  own  room,  a  large  one  out  of  the  sitting- 
room. 

"So  am  I,"  assented  Sylvia.  "It  seems  real  good 
to  have  him  here  again,  and  he's  dreadful  tickled 
with  his  new  rooms.  I  guess  he's  glad  he  wasn't 
shoved  off  onto  Mrs.  Jim  Jones  or  Mrs.  Sam  Elliot. 
I  don't  believe  he  has  an  idea  of  getting  married  to 

43 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

any  girl  alive.  He  ain't  a  mite  silly  over  the  girls, 
if  they  are  all  setting  their  caps  at  him.  I'm  sort 
of  sorry  for  Lucy  Ayres.  She's  a  pretty  girl,  and 
real  ladylike,  and  I  believe  she'd  give  all  her  old  shoes 
to  get  him." 

"Look  out,  he'll  hear  you,"  charged  Henry.  Their 
room  was  directly  under  the  one  occupied  by  Horace. 

Presently  the  odor  of  a  cigar  floated  into  their  open 
window. 

"I  should  know  he'd  got  home.  Smoking  is  an 
awful  habit,"  Sylvia  said,  with  a  happy  chuckle. 

"  He'd  do  better  if  he  smoked  a  pipe,"  said  Henry. 
Henry  smoked  a  pipe. 

"If  a  man  is  going  to  smoke  at  all,  I  think  he  had 
better  smoke  something  besides  a  smelly  old  pipe," 
said  Sylvia.  "It  seems  to  me,  with  all  our  means, 
you  might  smoke  cigars  now,  Henry.  I  saw  real  nice 
ones  advertised  two  for  five  cents  the  other  day,  and 
you  needn't  smoke  more  than  two  a  day." 

Henry  sniffed  slightly. 

"I  suppose  you  think  women  don't  know  anything 
about  cigars,"  said  Sylvia;  "but  I  can  smell,  any 
how,  and  I  know  Mr.  Allen  is  smoking  a  real  good 
cigar." 

"  Yes,  he  is,"  assented  Henry. 

"And  I  don't  believe  he  pays  more  than  a  cent 
apiece.  His  cigars  have  gilt  papers  around  them, 
and  I  know  as  well  as  I  want  to  they're  cheap;  I 
know  a  cent  apiece  is  as  much  as  he  pays.  He  smokes 
so  many  he  can't  pay  more  than  that." 

Henry  sniffed  again,  but  Sylvia  did  not  hear.  She 
had  one  deaf  ear,  and  she  was  lying  on  her  sound  one. 
Then  they  fell  asleep,  and  it  was  some  time  before 

44 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

both  woke  suddenly.  A  sound  had  wakened  Henry, 
an  odor  Sylvia.  Henry  had  heard  a  door  open,  forc 
ing  him  into  wakefulness;  Sylvia  had  smelled  the  ci 
gar  again.  She  nudged  her  husband.  Just  then  the 
tall  clock  in  the  sitting-room  struck  ten  deliberately. 

"It's  late,  and  he's  awake,  smoking,  now,"  whis 
pered  Sylvia. 

Henry  said  nothing.     He  only  grunted. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  queer?" 

"Oh  no.  I  guess  he's  only  reading,"  replied  Henry. 
He  had  a  strong  masculine  loyalty  towards  Horace, 
as  another  man.  He  waited  until  he  heard  Sylvia's 
heavy,  regular  breathing  again.  Then  he  slipped  out 
of  bed  and  stole  to  the  window.  It  was  a  strange 
night,  very  foggy,  but  the  fog  was  shot  through  with 
shafts  of  full  moonlight.  The  air  was  heavy  and 
damp  and  sweet.  Henry  listened  a  moment  at  the 
bedroom  window,  then  he  tiptoed  out  into  the  sitting- 
room.  He  stole  across  the  hall  into  the  best  parlor. 
He  raised  a  window  in  there  noiselessly,  looked  out, 
and  listened.  There  was  a  grove  of  pines  and  spruces 
on  that  side  of  the  house.  There  was  a  bench  under 
a  pine.  Upon  this  bench  Henry  gradually  perceived 
a  whiteness  more  opaque  than  that  of  the  fog.  He 
heard  a  voice,  then  a  responsive  murmur.  Then  the 
fragrant  smoke  of  a  cigar  came  directly  in  his  face. 
Henry  shook  his  head.  He  remained  motionless  a 
moment.  Then  he  left  the  room,  and  going  into  the 
hall  stole  up-stairs.  The  door  of  the  southwest  cham 
ber  stood  wide  open.  Henry  entered.  He  was  trem 
bling  like  a  woman.  He  loved  the  young  man,  and 
suspicions,  like  dreadful,  misshapen  monsters,  filled 
his  fancy.  He  peeped  into  the  little  room  which  he 

45 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

and  Sylvia  had  fitted  up  as  a  bedroom  for  Horace, 
and  it  was  vacant. 

Henry  went  noiselessly  back  down-stairs  and  into 
his  own  room.  He  lay  down  without  disturbing  his 
wife,  but  he  did  not  fall  asleep.  After  what  seemed 
to  him  a  long  time  he  heard  a  stealthy  footstep  on 
the  stair,  and  again  smelled  the  aroma  of  a  cigar 
which  floated  down  from  overhead. 

That  awoke  Sylvia.  "I  declare,  he's  smoking 
again,"  she  murmured,  sleepily.  "It's  a  dreadful 
habit." 

Henry  made  no  reply.  He  breathed  evenly,  pre 
tending  to  be  asleep. 


CHAPTER  V 

ALTHOUGH  it  was  easy  for  a  man,  especially  for  a 
young  marriageable  man,  to  obtain  board  in  East 
Westland,  it  was  not  so  easy  for  a  woman;  and  the 
facts  of  her  youth  and  good  looks,  and  presumably 
marriageable  estate,  rendered  it  still  more  difficult. 
There  was  in  the  little  village  a  hotel,  so-called,  which 
had  formerly  been  the  tavern.  It  was  now  the 
East  Westland  House.  Once  it  had  been  the  Sign 
of  the  Horse.  The  old  sign-board  upon  which  a 
steed  in  flaming  red,  rampant  upon  a  crude  green 
field  against  a  crude  blue  sky,  had  been  painted  by 
some  local  artist,  all  unknown  to  fame,  and  long 
since  at  rest  in  the  village  graveyard,  still  remained 
in  the  hotel  attic,  tilted  under  the  dusty  eaves. 

The  Sign  of  the  Horse  had  been  in  former  days  a 
flourishing  hostelry,  before  which,  twice  a  day,  the 
Boston  and  the  Alford  stages  had  drawn  up  with 
mighty  flourishes  of  horns  and  gallant  rearings  of 
jaded  steeds.  Scarcely  a  night  but  it  had  been 
crowded  by  travellers  who  stayed  overnight  for  the 
sake  of  the  good  beds  and  the  good  table  and  good 
bar.  Now  there  was  no  bar.  East  Westland  wras  a 
strictly  temperance  village,  and  all  the  liquor  to  be 
obtained  was  exceedingly  bad,  and  some  declared 
diluted  by  the  waters  of  the  village  pond. 

47 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

There  was  a  very  small  stock  of  rum,  gin,  and 
whiskey,  and  very  young  and  morbid  California  wines, 
kept  at  the  village  drug  store,  and  dispensed  by 
Albion  Bennet.  Albion  required  a  deal  of  red-tape 
before  he  would  sell  even  these  doubtful  beverages 
for  strictly  medicinal  purposes.  He  was  in  mortal 
terror  of  being  arrested  and  taken  to  the  county-seat 
at  Newholm  for  violation  of  the  liquor  law.  Albion, 
although  a  young  and  sturdy  man  not  past  his  youth, 
was  exceedingly  afraid  of  everything.  He  was  un 
married,  and  boarded  at  the  hotel.  There  he  was  di 
vided  between  fear  of  burglars,  if  he  slept  on  the  first 
floor,  and  of  fire  if  he  slept  on  the  second.  He  com 
promised  by  sleeping  on  the  second,  with  a  sufficient 
length  of  stout,  knotted  muslin  stowed  away  in  his 
trunk,  to  be  attached  to  the  bed-post  and  reach  the 
ground  in  case  of  a  conflagration. 

There  was  no  bank  in  East  Westland,  none  nearer 
than  Alford,  six  miles  away,  and  poor  Albion  was  at 
his  wit's  end  to  keep  his  daily  receipts  with  safety 
to  them  and  himself.  He  had  finally  hit  upon  the 
expedient  of  leaving  them  every  night  with  Sidney 
Meeks,  who  was  afraid  of  nothing.  "If  anything 
happens  to  your  money,  Albion,"  said  Sidney,  "I'll 
make  it  good,  even  if  I  have  to  sell  my  wine-cellar." 
Albion  was  afraid  even  to  keep  a  revolver.  His 
state  of  terror  was  pitiable,  and  the  more  so  because 
he  had  a  fear  of  betraying  it,  which  was  to  some  ex 
tent  the  most  cruel  fear  of  all.  Sidney  Meeks  was 
probably  the  only  person  in  East  Westland  who  under 
stood  how  it  was  with  him,  and  he  kept  his  knowl 
edge  to  himself.  Sidney  was  astute  on  a  diagnosis  of 
his  fellow-men's  mentalities,  and  he  had  an  almost 

48 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

womanly  compassion  even  for  those  weaknesses  of 
which  he  himself  was  incapable. 

"Good;  I'll  keep  what  you  have  in  your  till  every 
night  for  you,  and  welcome,  Albion,"  he  had  said. 
"I  understand  how  you  feel,  living  in  the  hotel  the 
way  you  do." 

"Nobody  knows  who  is  coming  and  going,"  said 
Albion,  blinking  violently. 

"Of  course  one  doesn't,  and  nobody  would  dream 
of  coming  to  my  house.  Everybody  knows  I  am  as 
poor  as  Job's  off  ox.  You  might  get  a  revolver,  but 
I  wouldn't  recommend  it.  You  look  to  me  as  if  you 
might  sleep  too  sound  to  make  it  altogether  safe." 

"I  do  sleep  pretty  sound,"  admitted  Albion,  al 
though  he  did  not  quite  see  the  force  of  the  other 
man's  argument. 

"Just  so.  Any  man  who  sleeps  very  sound  has  no 
right  to  keep  a  loaded  revolver  by  him.  He  seldom, 
if  ever,  wakes  up  thoroughly  if  he  hears  a  noise,  and 
he's  mighty  apt  to  blaze  away  at  the  first  one  he  sees, 
even  if  it's  his  best  friend.  No,  it  is  not  safe." 

"I  don't  think  it's  very  safe  myself,"  said  Albion, 
in  a  relieved  tone.  "Miss  Hart  is  always  prowling 
around  the  house.  She  doesn't  sleep  very  well,  and 
she's  always  smelling  smoke  or  hearing  burglars. 
She's  timid,  like  most  women.  I  might  shoot  her  if 
I  was  only  half  awake  and  she  came  opposite  my 
door." 

"Exactly,"  said  Sidney  Meeks.  When  Albion  went 
away  he  stared  after  his  bulky,  retreating  back  with 
a  puzzled  expression.  He  shook  his  head.  Fear  was 
the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  for  him  to  understand. 
"That  great,  able-bodied  man  must  feel  mighty  queer," 

49 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

he  muttered,  as  he  stowed  away  the  pile  of  greasy 
bank-notes  and  the  nickels  collected  at  the  soda- 
fountain  in  a  pile  of  disordered  linen  in  a  bureau 
drawer.  He  chuckled  to  himself  at  the  eagerness 
with  which  Albion  had  seized  upon  the  fancy  of  his 
shooting  Miss  Hart. 

Lucinda  Hart  kept  the  hotel.  She  had  succeeded 
to  its  proprietorship  when  her  father  died.  She  was 
a  middle-aged  woman  who  had  been  pretty  in  a 
tense,  nervous  fashion.  Now  the  prettiness  had  dis 
appeared  under  the  strain  of  her  daily  life.  It  was 
a  hard  struggle  to  keep  the  East  Westland  House 
and  make  both  ends  meet.  She  had  very  few  reg 
ular  boarders,  and  transients  were  not  as  numerous 
as  they  had  been  in  the  days  of  the  stage-coaches. 
Now  commercial  travellers  and  business  men  went  to 
Alford  overnight  instead  of  remaining  at  East  West- 
land.  Miss  Hart  used  the  same  feather-beds  which 
had  once  been  esteemed  so  luxurious.  She  kept  them 
clean,  well  aired,  and  shaken,  and  she  would  not  have 
a  spring-bed  or  a  hair  mattress  in  the  house.  She  was 
conservatism  itself.  She  could  no  more  change  and 
be  correct  to  her  own  understanding  than  the  multi 
plication  table. 

"Feather-beds  are  good  enough  for  anybody  who 
stays  in  this  hotel,  I  don't  care  who  it  is,"  she  said. 
She  would  not  make  an  exception,  even  for  Miss 
Eliza  Farrel,  the  assistant  teacher  in  the  high  school, 
although  she  had,  with  a  distrust  of  the  teacher's  per 
sonality,  a  great  respect  for  her  position.  She  was 
inexorable  even  when  the  teacher  proposed  furnishing 
a  spring-bed  and  mattress  at  her  own  expense.  "I'd 
be  willing  to  accommodate,  and  buy  them  myself,  but 

So 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

it  is  a  bad  example,"  she  said,  firmly.  "Things  that 
were  good  enough  for  our  fathers  and  mothers  are 
good  enough  for  us.  Good  land!  people  ain't  any 
different  from  what  they  used  to  be.  We  haven't 
any  different  flesh  nor  any  different  bones." 

Miss  Hart  had  a  theory  that  many  of  the  modern 
diseases  might  be  traced  directly  to  the  eschewing  of 
feather-beds.  "Never  heard  of  appendicitis  in  my 
father's  time,  when  folks  slept  on  good,  soft  feather- 
beds,  and  got  their  bones  and  in'ards  rested,"  she  said. 

Miss  Hart  was  as  timid  in  her  way  as  Albion  Bennet. 
She  never  got  enough  control  of  her  nervous  fears  to 
secure  many  hours  of  sound  sleep.  She  never  was 
able  to  wholly  rid  herself  of  the  conviction  that  her 
own  wake  fulness  and  watchfulness  was  essential  to 
the  right  running  of  all  the  wheels  of  the  universe, 
although  she  would  have  been  shocked  had  she  fairly 
known  her  own  attitude.  She  patrolled  the  house  by 
night,  moving  about  the  low,  uneven  corridors  with 
a  flickering  candle — for  she  was  afraid  to  carry  a 
kerosene  lamp — like  a  wandering  spirit. 

She  was  suspicious,  too.  She  never  lodged  a  stran 
ger  overnight  but  she  had  grave  doubts  of  his  moral 
status.  She  imagined  him  a  murderer  escaped  from 
justice,  and  compared  his  face  with  the  pictures  of 
criminals  in  the  newspapers,  or  she  was  reasonably 
sure  that  he  was  dishonest,  although  she  had  little 
to  tempt  him.  She  employed  one  chambermaid 
and  a  stable-boy,  and  did  the  cooking  herself.  Miss 
Hart  was  not  a  good  cook.  She  used  her  thin,  tense 
hands  too  quickly.  She  was  prone  to  over-measures 
of  saleratus,  to  under-measures  of  sugar  and  coffee. 
She  erred  both  from  economy  and  from  the  haste 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

which  makes  waste.  Miss  Eliza  Parrel  often  turned 
from  the  scanty,  poorly  cooked  food  which  was  placed 
before  her  with  disgust,  but  she  never  seemed  to  lose 
an  ounce  of  her  firm,  fair  flesh,  nor  a  shade  of  her 
sweet  color. 

Miss  Eliza  Parrel  was  an  anomaly.  She  was  so 
beautiful  that  her  beauty  detracted  from  her  charm 
for  both  sexes.  It  was  so  perfect  as  to  awaken 
suspicion  in  a  world  where  nothing  is  perfect  from 
the  hand  of  nature.  Then,  too,  she  was  manifestly, 
in  spite  of  her  beauty,  not  in  the  first  flush  of  youth, 
and  had,  it  seemed,  no  right  to  such  perfection  of 
body.  Also  her  beauty  was  of  a  type  which  people 
invariably  associate  with  things  which  are  undesir 
able  to  the  rigidly  particular,  and  East  Westland  was 
largely  inhabited  by  the  rigidly  particular. 

East  Westland  was  not  ignorant.  It  read  of  the 
crimes  and  follies  of  the  times,  but  it  read  of  them 
with  a  distinct  and  complacent  sense  of  superiority. 
It  was  as  if  East  Westland  said:  "It  is  desirable  to 
read  of  these  things,  of  these  doings  among  the 
vicious  and  the  worldly,  that  we  may  understand 
what  we  are."  East  Westland  looked  upon  itself 
in  its  day  and  generation  as  a  lot  among  the  cities 
of  the  plain. 

It  seemed  inconceivable  that  East  Westland  people 
should  have  recognized  the  fact  that  Miss  Parrel's 
beauty  was  of  a  suspicious  type,  but  they  must  have 
had  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  it.  From  the  mo 
ment  that  Miss  Parrel  appeared  in  the  village,  al 
though  she  had  the  best  of  references,  not  a  woman 
would  admit  her  into  her  house  as  a  boarder,  and  the 
hotel,  with  its  feather-beds  and  poor  table,  was  her 

52 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

only  resource.  Women  said  of  her  that  she  was 
made  up,  that  no  woman  of  her  age  ever  looked  as 
she  did  and  had  a  perfectly  irreproachable  moral 
character. 

As  for  the  men,  they  admired  her  timidly,  sheep 
ishly,  and  also  a  trifle  contemptuously.  They  did  not 
admit  openly  the  same  opinion  as  the  women  with 
regard  to  the  legitimacy  of  her  charms,  but  they  did 
maintain  it  secretly.  It  did  not  seem  possible  to 
many  of  them  that  a  woman  could  look  just  as  Eliza 
Parrel  did  and  be  altogether  natural.  As  for  her 
character,  they  also  agreed  with  the  feminine  element 
secretly,  although  they  openly  declared  the  women 
were  jealous  of  such  beauty.  It  did  not  seem  that 
such  a  type  could  be  anything  except  a  dangerous 
one. 

Miss  Eliza  Parrel  was  a  pure  blonde,  as  blond  as  a 
baby.  There  was  not  a  line  nor  blemish  in  her  pure, 
fine  skin.  The  flush  on  her  rounded  cheeks  and  her 
full  lips  was  like  a  baby's.  Her  dimples  were  like  a 
baby's.  Her  blond  hair  was  thick  and  soft  with  a 
pristine  softness  and  thickness  which  is  always  asso 
ciated  with  the  hair  of  a  child.  Her  eyebrows  were 
pencilled  by  nature,  as  if  nature  had  been  art.  Her 
smile  was  as  fixedly  radiant  as  a  painted  cherub's. 
Her  figure  had  that  exuberance  and  slenderness  at 
various  portions  which  no  woman  really  believes  in. 
She  looked  like  a  beautiful  doll,  with  an  unvarying 
loveliness  of  manner  and  disposition  under  all  vicis 
situdes  of  life,  but  she  was  undoubtedly  something 
more  than  a  doll. 

Even  the  women  listened  dubiously  and  incredu 
lously  when  she  talked.  They  had  never  heard  a 

S3 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

woman  talk  about  such  things  in  the  way  she  did. 
She  had  a  fine  education,  being  a  graduate  of  one  of 
the  women's  colleges.  She  was  an  accomplished  musi 
cian  and  a  very  successful  teacher.  Her  pupils  un 
doubtedly  progressed,  although  they  did  not  have  the 
blind  love  and  admiration  which  pupils  usually  have 
for  a  beautiful  teacher.  To  this  there  was  one  ex 
ception. 

Miss  Parrel  always  smiled,  never  frowned  or  rep 
rimanded.  It  was  said  that  Miss  Farrel  had  better 
government  than  Miss  Florence  Dean,  the  other 
assistant.  Miss  Dean  was  plain  and  saturnine,  and 
had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  a  good  boarding-place, 
even  with  the  mother  of  a  marriageable  daughter, 
who  had  taken  her  in  with  far-sighted  alacrity.  She 
dreamed  of  business  calls  concerning  school  matters, 
which  Mr.  Horace  Allen,  the  principal,  might  be 
obliged  to  make,  and  she  planned  to  have  her  daugh 
ter,  who  was  a  very  pretty  girl,  in  evidence.  But 
poor  Miss  Farrel  was  thrown  back  upon  the  mercies 
of  Miss  Hart  and  the  feather-beds  and  the  hotel. 

There  were  other  considerations  besides  the  feather- 
beds  and  the  poor  fare  which  conspired  to  render  the 
hotel  an  undesirable  boarding  -  place.  Miss  Farrel 
might  as  well  have  been  under  the  espionage  of  a 
private  detective  as  with  Miss  Hart.  If  Miss  Hart 
was  suspicious  of  dire  mischief  in  the  cases  of  her 
other  boarders,  she  was  certain  in  the  case  of  Eliza 
Farrel.  She  would  not  have  admitted  her  under  her 
roof  at  all  had  she  not  been  forced  thereto  by  the 
necessity  for  money.  Miss  Hart  herself  took  care  of 
Miss  Parrel's  room  sometimes.  She  had  no  hesita 
tion  whatever  in  looking  through  her  bureau  drawers; 

54 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

indeed,  she  considered  it  a  duty  which  she  owed  her 
self  and  the  character  of  her  house.  She  had  taken 
away  the  keys  on  purpose,  and  had  told  Miss  Parrel, 
without  the  slightest  compunction,  that  they  were 
lost.  The  trunks  were  locked,  and  she  had  never 
been  able  to  possess  herself  of  the  keys,  but  she  felt 
sure  that  they  contained,  if  not  entire  skeletons,  at 
least  scattered  bones. 

She  discovered  once,  quite  in  open  evidence  on 
Miss  Parrel's  wash-stand,  a  little  porcelain  box  of 
pink- tinted  salve,  and  she  did  not  hesitate  about 
telling  Hannah,  her  chambermaid,  the  daughter  of 
a  farmer  in  the  vicinity,  and  a  girl  who  was  quite  in 
her  confidence.  She  called  Hannah  into  the  room  and 
displayed  the  box.  "This  is  what  she  uses,"  she  said, 
solemnly. 

Hannah,  who  was  young,  but  had  a  thick,  color 
less  skin,  nodded  with  an  inscrutable  expression. 

' '  I  have  always  thought  she  used  something  on  her 
face,"  said  Miss  Hart.  "You  can't  cheat  me." 

Hannah  took  up  a  little,  ivory-backed  nail-polisher 
which  was  also  on  the  wash-stand.  "What  do  you 
suppose  this  is?"  she  asked,  timidly,  in  an  awed 
whisper. 

"How  do  I  know?  I  never  use  such  things  my 
self,  and  I  never  knew  women  who  did  before,"  said 
Miss  Hart,  severely.  "I  dare  say,  after  she  puts  the 
paint  on,  she  has  to  use  something  to  smooth  it  down 
where  the  natural  color  of  the  skin  begins.  How  do 
I  know?" 

Hannah  laid  the  nail-polisher  beside  the  box  of 
salve.  She  was  very  much  in  love  with  the  son  of 
the  farmer  who  lived  next  to  her  father's.  The 

55 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

next  Thursday  afternoon  was  her  afternoon  off.  She 
watched  her  chance,  and  stole  into  Miss  Parrel's 
room,  applied  with  trembling  fingers  a  little  of  the 
nail-salve  to  her  cheeks,  then  carefully  rubbed  it  all 
off  with  the  polisher.  She  then  went  to  her  own 
room,  put  on  a  hat  and  thick  veil,  and  succeeded  in 
getting  out  of  the  hotel  without  meeting  Miss  Hart. 
She  was  firmly  convinced  that  she  was  painted,  and 
that  her  cheeks  had  the  lovely  peach-bloom  of  Miss 
Parrel's. 

It  seems  sometimes  as  if  one's  own  conviction  con 
cerning  one's  self  goes  a  long  way  towards  establishing 
that  of  other  people.  Hannah,  that  evening,  when 
she  met  the  young  man  whom  she  loved,  felt  that  she 
was  a  beauty  like  Miss  Eliza  Parrel,  and  before  she 
went  home  he  had  told  her  how  pretty  she  was  and 
asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  Hannah  had  consented, 
reserving  the  right  to  work  enough  longer  to  earn  a 
little  more  money.  She  wished  to  be  married  in  a 
white  lace  gown  like  one  in  Miss  Parrel's  closet.  Miss 
Hart  had  called  Hannah  in  to  look  at  it  one  morning 
when  Miss  Parrel  was  at  school. 

"What  do  you  suppose  a  school-teacher  can  want 
of  a  dress  like  this  here  in  East  Westland  ?"  Miss  Hart 
had  asked,  severely.  "She  can't  wear  it  to  meeting, 
or  a  Sunday-school  picnic,  or  a  church  sociable,  or 
even  to  a  wedding  in  this  place.  Look  at  it.  It's 
cut  low-neck." 

Hannah  had  looked.  That  night  she  had,  in  the 
secrecy  of  her  own  room,  examined  her  own  shoulders, 
and  decided  that  although  they  might  not  be  as 
white  as  Miss  Parrel's,  they  were  presumably  as  well 
shaped.  She  had  resolved  then  and  there  to  be  mar- 

56 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

ried  in  a  dress  like  that.  Along  with  her  love-rapt 
ures  came  the  fairy  dream  of  the  lace  gown.  For 
once  in  her  life  she  would  be  dressed  like  a  princess. 

When  she  told  Miss  Hart  she  was  going  to  be  mar 
ried,  her  mistress  sniffed.  "You  can  do  just  as  you 
like,  and  you  will  do  just  as  you  like,  whether  or  no," 
she  said;  "but  you  are  a  poor  fool.  Here  you  are 
getting  good  wages,  and  having  it  all  to  spend  on 
yourself;  and  you  ain't  overworked,  and  you'll  find 
out  you'll  be  overworked  and  have  a  whole  raft  of 
young  ones,  and  not  a  cent  of  wages,  except  enough 
to  keep  soul  and  body  together,  and  just  enough  to 
wear  so  you  won't  be  took  up  for  going  round  in 
decent.  I've  seen  enough  of  such  kind  of  work." 

* '  Amos  will  make  a  real  good  husband ;  everybody 
says  he's  the  best  match  anywhere  around,"  replied 
Hannah,  crimson  with  blushes  and  half  crying. 

Miss  Hart  sniffed  again.  "Jump  into  the  fire  if 
you  want  to,"  said  she.  "I  hope  you  ain't  going 
before  fall,  and  leave  me  in  the  lurch  in  hot  weather, 
and  preserves  to  be  put  up." 

Hannah  said  she  would  not  think  of  getting  mar 
ried  before  November.  She  did  not  say  a  word  about 
the  white  lace  gown,  but  that  evening  the  desire  to 
look  at  it  again  waxed  so  strong  within  her  that  she 
could  not  resist  it.  She  was  sitting  in  her  own  room, 
after  lighting  the  kerosene  lamp  in  the  corridor  op 
posite  Miss  Parrel's  room,  which  was  No.  20,  and  she 
was  thinking  hard  about  the  lace  gown,  and  wonder 
ing  how  much  it  cost,  when  she  started  suddenly. 
As  she  sat  beside  her  window,  her  own  lamp  not  yet 
lit,  she  had  seen  a  figure  flit  past  in  the  misty  moon 
light,  and  she  was  sure  it  was  Miss  Parrel.  She  re- 
s  57 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

fleeted  quickly  that  it  was  Thursday  evening,  when 
Miss  Hart  always  went  to  prayer-meeting.  Hannah 
had  a  cold  and  had  stayed  at  home,  although  it  was 
her  day  off.  Miss  Hart  cherished  the  belief  that  her 
voice  was  necessary  to  sustain  the  singing  at  any- 
church  meeting.  She  had,  in  her  youth,  possessed  a 
fine  contralto  voice.  She  possessed  only  the  remnant 
of  one  now,  but  she  still  sang  in  the  choir,  because 
nobody  had  the  strength  of  mind  to  request  her  to 
resign.  Sunday  after  Sunday  she  stood  in  her  place 
and  raised  her  voice,  which  was  horribly  hoarse  and 
hollow,  in  the  sacred  tunes,  and  people  shivered  and 
endured.  Miss  Hart  never  missed  a  Sunday  service, 
a  choir  rehearsal,  or  a  Thursday  prayer-meeting,  and 
she  did  not  on  that  Thursday  evening. 

Hannah  went  to  her  door  and  listened.  She  heard 
laughter  down  in  the  room  which  had  been  the  bar 
but  was  now  the  office.  A  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke 
floated  from  there  through  the  corridor.  Hannah 
drew  it  in  with  a  sense  of  delicious  peace.  Her  lover 
smoked,  and  somehow  the  odor  seemed  to  typify  to 
her  domestic  happiness  and  mystery.  She  listened 
long,  looking  often  at  the  clock  on  the  wall.  "She 
must  be  gone,"  she  thought,  meaning  Miss  Hart. 
She  was  almost  sure  that  the  figure  which  she  had 
seen  flitting  under  her  window  in  the  moonlight  was 
that  of  the  school-teacher.  Finally  she  could  not  re 
sist  the  temptation  any  longer.  She  hurried  down 
the  corridor  until  she  reached  No.  20.  She  tapped 
and  waited,  then  she  tapped  and  waited  again.  There 
was  no  response.  Hannah  tried  the  door.  It  was 
locked.  She  took  her  chambermaid's  key  and  un 
locked  the  door,  looking  around  her  fearfully.  Then 

58 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

she  opened  the  door  and  slid  in.  She  locked  the  door 
behind  her.  Then  straight  to  the  closet  she  went, 
and  that  beautiful  lace  robe  seemed  to  float  out  tow 
ards  her.  Hannah  slipped  off  her  own  gown,  and  in 
a  few  moments  she  stood  before  the  looking-glass, 
transformed. 

She  was  so  radiant,  so  pleased,  that  a  flush  came 
out  on  her  thick  skin;  her  eyes  gleamed  blue.  The 
lace  gown  fitted  her  very  well.  She  turned  this  way 
and  that.  After  all,  her  neck  was  not  bad,  not  as 
white,  perhaps,  as  Miss  Parrel's,  but  quite  lovely  in 
shape.  She  walked  glidingly  across  the  room,  look 
ing  over  her  shoulder  at  the  trail  of  lace.  She  was 
unspeakably  happy.  She  had  a  lover,  and  she  was 
a  woman  in  a  fine  gown  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 
The  gown  was  not  her  own,  but  she  would  have  one 
like  it.  She  did  not  realize  that  this  gown  was  not 
hers.  She  was  fairly  radiant  with  the  possession  of 
her  woman's  birthright,  this  poor  farmer's  daughter, 
in  whom  the  instincts  of  her  kind  were  strong.  She 
glided  across  the  room  many  times.  She  surveyed 
herself  in  the  glass.  Every  time  she  looked  she 
seemed  to  herself  more  beautiful,  and  there  was  some 
thing  good  and  touching  in  this  estimation  of  her 
self,  for  she  seemed  to  see  herself  with  her  lover's 
eyes  as  well  as  with  her  own. 

Finally  she  sat  down  in  Miss  Parrel's  rocker;  she 
crossed  her  knees  and  viewed  with  delight  the  fleecy 
fall  of  lace  to  the  floor.  Then  she  fell  to  dreaming, 
and  her  dreams  were  good.  In  that  gown  of  fashion 
she  dreamed  the  dreams  of  the  life  to  which  the 
women  of  her  race  were  born.  She  dreamed  of  her 
good  housewifery;  she  dreamed  of  the  butter  she 

59 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

would  make;  she  dreamed  of  her  husband  coming 
home  to  meals  all  ready  and  well  cooked.  She 
dreamed,  underneath  the  other  dreams,  of  children 
coming  home.  She  had  no  realization  of  the  time 
she  sat  there.  At  last  she  started  and  turned  white. 
She  had  heard  a  key  turn  in  the  lock.  Then  Miss  Far- 
rel  entered  the  room — Miss  Eliza  Parrel,  magnificent  in 
pale  gray,  with  a  hat  trimmed  with  roses  crowning 
her  blond  head.  Hannah  cowered.  She  tried  to  speak, 
but  only  succeeded  in  making  a  sound  as  if  she  were 
deaf  and  dumb. 

Then  Miss  Parrel  spoke.  There  was  a  weary  as 
tonishment  and  amusement  in  her  tone,  but  nothing 
whatever  disturbed  or  harsh.  "Oh,  is  it  you,  Han 
nah?"  she  said. 

Hannah  murmured  something  unintelligible. 

Miss  Parrel  went  on,  sweetly:  "So  you  thought  you 
would  try  on  my  lace  gown,  Hannah?"  she  said. 
"It  fits  you  very  well.  I  see  your  hands  are  clean. 
I  am  glad  of  that.  Now  please  take  it  off  and  put 
on  your  own  dress." 

Hannah  stood  up.     She  was  abject. 

"There  is  nothing  for  you  to  be  afraid  of,"  said 
Miss  Parrel.  "Only  take  off  the  gown  and  put  on 
your  own,  or  I  am  afraid  Miss  Hart — " 

Miss  Hart's  name  acted  like  a  terrible  stimulus. 
Hannah  unfastened  the  lace  gown  with  fingers  trem 
bling  with  haste.  She  stepped  out  of  the  shimmer 
ing  circle  which  it  made;  she  was  in  her  own  cos 
tume  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time,  and  the 
lace  gown  was  in  its  accustomed  place  in  the  closet. 
Then  suddenly  Miss  Hart  opened  the  door. 

"I  thought  I  saw  a  light,"  said  she.  She  looked 
60 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

from  one  to  the  other.  "It  is  after  eleven  o'clock," 
she  said,  further. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Farrel,  sweetly.  "I  have  been 
working.  I  had  to  look  over  some  exercises.  I  think 
I  am  not  quite  well.  Have  you  any  digitalis  in  the 
house,  Miss  Hart?  Hannah  here  does  not  know.  I 
was  sorry  to  disturb  her,  and  she  does  not  know.  I 
have  an  irritable  heart,  and  digitalis  helps  it." 

"No,  I  have  not  got  any  digitalis,"  replied  Miss 
Hart,  shortly.  She  gave  the  hard  sound  to  the  g, 
and  she  looked  suspiciously  at  both  women.  How 
ever,  Miss  Farrel  was  undoubtedly  pale,  and  Miss 
Hart's  face  relaxed. 

"Go  back  to  your  room,"  she  said  to  Hannah. 
"You  won't  be  fit  for  a  thing  to-morrow."  Then 
she  said  to  Miss  Farrel:  "  I  don't  know  what  you  mean 
by  digitalis.  I  haven't  got  any,  but  I'll  mix  you  up 
some  hot  essence  of  peppermint,  and  that's  the  best 
thing  I  know  of  for  anything." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Farrel.  She  had  sank  into 
a  chair,  and  had  her  hand  over  her  heart. 

"I'll  have  it  here  in  a  minute,"  said  Miss  Hart. 
She  went  out,  and  Hannah  followed  her,  but  not 
before  she  and  Miss  Eliza  Farrel  had  exchanged  looks 
wThich  meant  that  each  had  a  secret  of  the  other  to 
keep  as  a  precious  stolen  jewel. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  next  morning  Henry  was  very  quiet  at  the 
breakfast- table.  He  said  good-morning  to  Horace  in 
almost  a  surly  manner,  and  Sylvia  glanced  from  one 
to  the  other  of  the  two  men.  After  Horace  had  gone 
to  school  she  went  out  in  the  front  yard  to  interview 
Henry,  who  was  pottering  about  the  shrubs  which 
grew  on  either  side  of  the  gravel  walk. 

"What  on  earth  ailed  you  and  Mr.  Allen  this  morn 
ing?"  she  began,  abruptly. 

Henry  continued  digging  around  the  roots  of  a 
peony.  "I  don't  know  as  anything  ailed  us.  I  don't 
know  what  you  are  driving  at,"  he  replied,  lying  un 
hesitatingly. 

"Something  did  ail  you.     You  can't  cheat  me." 
"I  don't  know  what  you  are  driving  at." 
"Something  did  ail  you.     You'll  spoil  that  peony. 
You've  got  all  the  weeds  out.     What  on  earth  are 
you  digging  round  it  that  way  for  ?     What  ailed  you  ?" 
"I  don't  know  what  you  are  driving  at." 
"You  can't  cheat  me.     Something  is  to  pay.     For 
the  land's  sake,  leave  that  peony  alone,  and  get  the 
weeds  out  from  around  that  syringa  bush.     You  act 
as  if  you  were  possessed.     What  ailed  you  and  Mr. 
Allen  this  morning?     I  want  to  know." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  driving  at,"  Henry 
62 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

said  again,  but  he  obediently  turned  his  attention  to 
the  syringa  bush.  He  always  obeyed  a  woman  in 
small  matters,  and  reserved  his  masculine  preroga 
tives  for  large  ones. 

Sylvia  returned  to  the  house.  Her  mouth  was  set 
hard.  Nobody  knew  how  on  occasions  Sylvia  longed 
for  another  woman  to  whom  to  speak  her  mind. 
She  loved  her  husband,  but  no  man  was  capable  of 
entirely  satisfying  all  her  moods.  She  started  to  go 
to  the  attic  on  another  exploring  expedition;  then 
she  stopped  suddenly,  reflecting.  The  end  of  her  re 
flection  was  that  she  took  off  her  gingham  apron,  tied 
on  a  nice  white  one  trimmed  with  knitted  lace,  and 
went  down  the  street  to  Mrs.  Thomas  P.  Ayres's. 
Thomas  P.  Ayres  had  been  dead  for  the  last  ten  years, 
but  everybody  called  his  widow  Mrs.  T.  P.  Ayres. 
Mrs.  Ayres  kept  no  maid.  She  had  barely  enough 
income  to  support  herself  and  her  daughter.  She 
came  to  the  door  herself.  She  was  a  small,  delicate, 
pretty  woman,  and  her  little  thin  hands  were  red  with 
dish-water. 

"Good-morning,"  she  said,  in  a  weary,  gentle  fash 
ion.  "Come  in,  Mrs.  Whitman,  won't  you?"  As  she 
spoke  she  wrrinkled  her  forehead  between  her  curves 
of  gray  hair.  She  had  always  wrinkled  her  forehead, 
but  in  some  inscrutable  fashion  the  wrinkles  had  al 
ways  smoothed  out.  Her  forehead  was  smooth  as  a 
girls.  She  smiled,  and  the  smile  was  exactly  in  ac 
cord  with  her  voice;  it  was  weary  and  gentle.  There 
was  not  the  slightest  joy  in  it,  only  a  submission  and  pa 
tience  which  might  evince  a  slight  hope  of  joy  to  come. 

"I've  got  so  much  to  do  I  ought  not  to  stop  long," 
said  Sylvia,  "but  I  thought  I'd  run  in  a  minute." 

63 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Walk  right  in,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres,  and  Sylvia  fol 
lowed  her  into  the  sitting-room,  which  was  quite 
charming,  with  a  delicate  flowered  paper  and  a  net 
work  of  green  vines  growing  in  bracket-pots,  which 
stood  all  about.  There  were  also  palms  and  ferns. 
The  small  room  looked  like  a  bower,  although  it  was 
very  humbly  furnished.  Sylvia  sat  down. 

"You  always  look  so  cool  in  here,"  she  said,  "and 
it's  a  warm  morning  for  so  early  in  the  season." 

"It's  the  plants  and  vines,  I  guess,"  replied  Mrs. 
Ayres,  sitting  down  opposite  Mrs.  Whitman.  "Lucy 
has  real  good  luck  with  them." 

"How  is  Lucy  this  morning?" 

Mrs.  Ayres  wrinkled  her  forehead  again.  "She's 
in  bed  with  a  sick  headache,"  she  said.  "She  has  an 
awful  lot  of  them  lately.  Fm  afraid  she's  kind  of 
run  down." 

"Why  don't  you  get  a  tonic?" 

"Well,  I  have  been  thinking  of  it,  but  Dr.  Wallace 
gives  such  dreadful  strong  medicines,  and  Lucy  is  so 
delicate,  that  I  have  hesitated.  I  don't  know  but  I 
ought  to  take  her  to  Alford  to  Dr.  Gilbert,  but  she 
doesn't  want  to  go.  She  says  it  is  too  expensive, 
and  she  says  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  her;  but 
she  has  these  terrible  headaches  almost  every  other 
day,  and  she  doesn't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  sparrow 
alive,  and  I  can't  help  being  worried  about  her." 

"It  doesn't  seem  right,"  agreed  Mrs.  Whitman. 
"Last  time  I  was  here  I  thought  she  didn't  look  real 
well.  She's  got  color,  a  real  pretty  color,  but  it  isn't 
the  right  kind." 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres,  wrinkling  her 
forehead.  "The  color's  pretty,  but  you  can  see  too 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

plain  where  the  red  leaves  off  and  where  the  white 
begins." 

"Speaking  about  color,"  said  Mrs.  Whitman,  "I  am 
going  to  ask  you  something." 

"What?" 

"Do  you  really  think  Miss  Parrel's  color  is  nat 
ural?" 

"I  don't  know.     It  looks  so." 

"I  know  it  does,  but  I  had  it  real  straight  that  she 
keeps  some  pink  stuff  that  she  uses  in  a  box  as  bold 
as  can  be,  right  in  sight  on  her  wash-stand." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres, 
in  her  weary,  gentle  fashion.  "I  have  heard,  of 
course,  that  some  women  do  use  such  things,  but  none 
of  my  folks  ever  did,  and  I  never  knew  anybody 
else  who  did." 

Then  Sylvia  opened  upon  the  subject  which  had 
brought  her  there.  She  had  reached  it  by  a  process 
as  natural  as  nature  itself. 

"I  know  one  thing,"  said  she:  "I  have  no  opinion 
of  that  woman.  I  can't  have.  When  I  hear  a  wom 
an  saying  such  things  as  I  have  heard  of  her  say 
ing  about  a  girl,  when  I  know  it  isn't  true,  I  make 
up  my  mind  those  things  are  true  about  the  woman 
herself,  and  she's  talking  about  herself,  because  she's 
got  to  let  it  out,  and  she  makes  believe  it's  some 
body  else." 

Mrs.  Ayres's  face  took  on  a  strange  expression. 
Her  sweet  eyes  hardened  and  narrowed.  "What  do 
you  mean?"  she  asked,  sharply. 

"I  guess  I  had  better  not  tell  you  what  I  mean. 
Miss  Parrel  gives  herself  clean  away  just  by  her  looks. 
No  living  woman  was  ever  made  so  there  wasn't  a 

6s 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

flaw  in  her  face  but  that  there  was  a  flaw  in  her  soul. 
We're  none  of  us  perfect.  If  there  ain't  a  flaw  out 
side,  there's  a  flaw  inside;  you  mark  my  words." 

"What  was  it  she  said?"  asked  Mrs.  Ayres. 

"I  don't  mean  to  make  trouble.  I  never  did,  and 
I  ain't  going  to  begin  now,"  said  Sylvia.  Her  face 
took  on  a  sweet,  hypocritical  expression. 

"What  did  she  say?" 

Sylvia  fidgeted.  She  was  in  reality  afraid  to 
speak,  and  yet  her  very  soul  itched  to  do  so.  She 
answered,  evasively.  "When  a  woman  talks  about 
a  girl  running  after  a  man,  I  think  myself  she  lives 
in  a  glass  house  and  can't  afford  to  throw  stones," 
said  she.  She  nodded  her  head  unpleasantly. 

Mrs.  Ayres  reddened.  "I  suppose  you  mean  she 
has  been  talking  about  my  Lucy,"  said  she.  "Well, 
I  can  tell  you  one  thing,  and  I  can  tell  Miss  Parrel, 
too.  Lucy  has  never  run  after  Mr.  Allen  or  any  man. 
When  she  went  on  those  errands  to  your  house  I  had 
to  fairly  make  her  go.  She  said  that  folks  would 
think  she  was  running  after  Mr.  Allen,  even  if  he 
wasn't  there,  and  she  has  never  been,  to  my  knowl 
edge,  more  than  three  times  when  he  was  there,  and 
then  I  made  her.  I  told  her  folks  wouldn't  be  so 
silly  as  to  think  such  things  of  a  girl  like  her." 

"Folks  are  silly  enough  for  anything.  Of  course,  I 
knew  better;  you  know  that,  Mrs.  Ayres." 

"I  don't  know  what  I  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Ayres, 
with  that  forceful  indignation  of  which  a  gentle 
nature  is  capable  when  aroused. 

Mrs.  Whitman  looked  frightened.  She  opened  her 
lips  to  speak,  when  a  boy  came  running  into  the  yard. 
"Why,  who  is  that?"  she  cried,  nervously. 

66 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"It's  Tommy  Smith  from  Gray  &  Snow's  with 
some  groceries  I  ordered,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres,  tersely. 
She  left  the  room  to  admit  the  boy  at  the  side  door. 
Then  Sylvia  Whitman  heard  voices  in  excited  con 
versation.  At  the  same  time  she  began  to  notice 
that  the  road  was  filled  with  children  running  and 
exclaiming.  She  herself  hurried  to  the  kitchen  door, 
and  Mrs.  Ayres  turned  an  ashy  face  in  her  direction. 
At  the  same  time  Lucy  Ayres,  with  her  fair  hair 
dishevelled,  appeared  at  the  top  of  the  back  stairs 
listening.  "Oh,  it  is  awful!"  gasped  Mrs.  Ayres. 
"It  is  awful!  Miss  Eliza  Parrel  is  dead,  and — " 

Sylvia  grasped  the  other  woman  nervously  by  the 
arm.  "And  what?"  she  cried. 

Lucy  gave  an  hysterical  sob  and  sank  down  in  a 
slender  huddle  on  the  stairs.  The  grocer's  boy  looked 
at  them.  He  had  a  happy,  important  expression. 
"They  say — "  he  began,  but  Mrs.  Ayres  forestalled 
him. 

"They  say  Lucinda  Hart  murdered  her,"  she 
screamed  out. 

"Good  land!"  said  Sylvia.     Lucy  sobbed  again. 

The  boy  gazed  at  them  with  intense  relish.  He 
realized  the  joy  of  a  coup.  He  had  never  been  very 
important  in  his  own  estimation  nor  that  of  others. 
Now  he  knew  what  it  was  to  be  important.  "Yes," 
he  said,  gayly;  "they  say  she  give  her  rat  poison. 
They've  sent  for  the  sheriff  from  Alford." 

"She  never  did  it  in  the  world.  Why,  I  went  to 
school  with  her,"  gasped  Mrs.  Ayres. 

Sylvia  had  the  same  conviction,  but  she  backed  it 
with  logic.  "What  should  she  do  it  for?"  she  de 
manded.  "Miss  Parrel  was  a  steady  boarder,  and 

6? 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Lucinda  ain't  had  many  steady  boarders  lately,  and 
she  needed  the  money.  Folks  don't  commit  murder 
without  reason.  What  reason  was  there?" 

"School  ain't  going  to  keep  to-day,"  remarked  the 
boy,  with  glee. 

"Of  course  it  ain't,"  said  Sylvia,  angrily.  "What 
reason  do  they  give?" 

"I  'ain't  heard  of  none,"  said  the  boy.  "S'pose 
that  will  come  out  at  the  trial.  Hannah  Simmons 
is  going  to  be  arrested,  too.  They  think  she  knowed 
something  about  it." 

"Hannah  Simmons  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly,"  said 
Sylvia.  "What  makes  them  think  she  knew  any 
thing  about  it?" 

"Johnny  Soule,  that  works  at  the  hotel  stable,  says 
she  did,"  said  the  boy.  "They  think  he  knows  a 
good  deal." 

Sylvia  sniffed  contemptuously.  "That  Johnny 
Soule!"  said  she.  "He's  half  Canadian.  Father  was 
French.  I  wouldn't  take  any  stock  in  what  he  said." 

"Lucinda  never  did  it,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres.  "I  went 
to  school  with  her." 

Lucy  sobbed  again  wildly,  then  she  laughed  loudly. 
Her  mother  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "Lucy,"  said 
she,  "you  go  straight  back  up-stairs  and  put  this  out 
of  your  mind,  or  you'll  be  down  sick.  Go  straight  up 
stairs  and  lie  down,  and  I'll  bring  you  up  some  of  that 
nerve  medicine  Dr.  Wallace  put  up  for  you.  Maybe 
you  can  get  to  sleep." 

Lucy  sobbed  and  laughed  again.  "Stop  right 
where  you  are,"  said  her  mother,  with  a  wonderful, 
firm  gentleness — ' '  right  where  you  are.  Put  this  thing 
right  out  of  your  mind.  It's  nothing  you  can  help." 

68 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Lucy  sobbed  and  laughed  again,  and  this  time  her 
laugh  rang  so  wildly  that  the  grocer's  boy  looked  at 
her  with  rising  alarm.  He  admired  Lucy.  "I  say," 
he  said.  "Maybe  she  ain't  dead,  after  all.  I  heard 
all  this,  but  you  never  can  tell  anything  by  what 
folks  say.  You  had  better  mind  your  ma  and  put 
it  all  out  of  your  head."  The  grocer's  boy  and  Lucy 
had  been  in  the  same  class  at  school.  She  had  never 
noticed  him,  but  he  had  loved  her  as  from  an  im 
measurable  distance.  Both  were  very  young. 

Lucy  lifted  a  beautiful,  frightened  face,  and  stared 
at  him.  "Isn't  it  so?"  she  cried. 

"I  dare  say  it  ain't.  You  had  better  mind  your 
ma." 

"I  dare  say  it's  all  a  rumor,"  said  Sylvia,  soothingly. 

Mrs.  Ayres  echoed  her.  "All  a  made-up  story,  I 
think,"  said  she.  "Go  right  up-stairs,  Lucy,  and  put 
it  out  of  your  head." 

Lucy  crept  up-stairs  with  soft  sobs,  and  they  heard 
a  door  close.  Then  the  boy  spoke  again.  "It's  so, 
fast  enough,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  "but  there  ain't 
any  need  for  her  to  know  it  yet." 

"No,  there  isn't,  poor  child,"  said  Sylvia. 

"She's  dreadful  nervous,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres,  "and 
she  thought  a  lot  of  Miss  Parrel — more,  I  guess,  than 
most.  The  poor  woman  never  was  a  favorite  here. 
I  never  knew  why,  and  I  guess  nobody  else  ever  did. 
I  don't  care  what  she  may  have  intimated — I  mean 
what  you  were  talking  about,  Sylvia.  That's  all  over. 
Lucy  always  seemed  to  like  her,  and  the  poor  child  is 
so  sensitive  and  nervous." 

"Yes,  she  is  dreadful  nervous,"  said  Sylvia. 

"And  I  think  she  ate  too  much  candy  yesterday, 

69 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

too,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres.  "She  made  some  candy  from 
a  recipe  she  found  in  the  paper.  I  think  her  stomach 
is  sort  of  upset,  too.  I  mean  to  make  her  think  it's 
all  talk  about  Miss  Parrel  until  she's  more  herself." 

"I  would,"  said  Sylvia.     "Poor  child." 

The  grocer's  boy  made  a  motion  to  go.  "I  wonder 
if  they'll  hang  her,"  he  said,  cheerfully. 

"Hang  her!"  gasped  Mrs.  Ayres.  "She  never  did 
it  any  more  than  I  did.  I  went  to  school  with 
Lucinda  Hart." 

"Why  should  she  kill  a  steady  boarder,  when  the 
hotel  has  run  down  so  and  she's  been  so  hard  up  for 
money?"  demanded  Sylvia.  "Hang  herl  You'd 
better  run  along,  sonny;  the  other  customers  will 
be  waiting;  and  you  had  better  not  talk  too  much 
till  you  are  sure  what  you  are  talking  about." 

The  boy  went  out  and  closed  the  door,  and  they 
heard  his  merry  whistle  as  he  raced  out  of  the  yard. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SYLVIA  WHITMAN,  walking  home  along  the  familiar 
village  street,  felt  like  a  stranger  exploring  it  for  the 
first  time.  She  had  never  before  seen  it  tinder  the 
glare  of  tragedy  which  her  own  consciousness  threw 
before  her  eyes.  No  tragedy  had  ever  been  known 
in  East  Westland  since  she  could  remember.  It  had 
been  a  peaceful  little  community,  with  every  day 
much  like  the  one  before  and  after,  except  for  the 
happenings  of  birth  and  death,  which  are  the  most 
common  happenings  of  nature. 

But  now  came  death  by  violence,  and  even  the 
wayside  weeds  seemed  to  wave  in  a  lurid  light.  Now 
and  then  Sylvia  unconsciously  brushed  her  eyes,  as 
if  to  sweep  away  a  cobweb  which  obstructed  her 
vision.  When  she  reached  home,  that  also  looked 
strange  to  her,  and  even  her  husband's  face  in  the 
window  had  an  expression  which  she  had  never  seen 
before.  So  also  had  Horace  Allen's.  Both  men  were 
in  the  south  room.  There  was  in  their  faces  no  ex 
pression  which  seemed  to  denote  a  cessation  of  con 
versation.  In  fact,  nothing  had  passed  between  the 
two  men  except  the  simple  statement  to  each  other 
of  the  news  which  both  had  heard.  Henry  had  made 
no  comment,  neither  had  Horace.  Both  had  set,  with 
gloomy,  shocked  faces,  entirely  still.  But  Sylvia,  when 
she  entered,  forced  the  situation. 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Why  should  she  kill  a  steady  boarder,  much  as 
she  needed  one?"  she  queried. 

And  Horace  responded  at  once.  "There  is  no  pos 
sible  motive,"  he  said.  "The  arrest  is  a  mere  farce. 
It  will  surely  prove  so." 

Then  Henry  spoke.  "I  don't  understand,  for  my 
part,  why  she  is  arrested  at  all,"  he  said,  grimly. 

Horace  laughed  as  grimly.  "Because  there  is  no 
one  else  to  arrest,  and  the  situation  seems  to  call  for 
some  action,"  he  replied. 

"But  they  must  have  some  reason." 

"All  the  reason  was  the  girl's  (Hannah  Simmons,  I 
believe  her  name  is)  seeming  to  be  keeping  something 
back,  and  saying  that  Miss  Hart  gave  Miss  Parrel  some 
essence  of  peppermint  last  night,  and  the  fact  that 
the  stable-boy  seems  to  be  in  love  with  Hannah,  and 
jealous  and  eager  to  do  her  mistress  some  mischief, 
and  has  hinted  at  knowing  something,  which  I  don't 
believe,  for  my  part,  he  does." 

"It  is  all  nonsense,"  said  Sylvia.  "Whatever  Han 
nah  Simmons  is  keeping  to  herself,  it  isn't  killing  an 
other  woman,  or  knowing  that  Lucinda  Hart  did  it. 
There  was  no  reason  for  either  of  those  women  to  kill 
Miss  Parrel,  and  folks  don't  do  such  awful  things  with 
out  reason,  unless  they're  crazy,  and  it  isn't  likely 
that  Lucinda  and  Hannah  have  both  come  down  crazy 
together,  and  I  know  it  ain't  in  the  Hart  family,  or 
the  Simmons.  What  if  poor  Lucinda  did  give  Miss 
Parrel  some  essence  of  peppermint?  I  gave  some  to 
Henry  night  before  last,  when  he  had  gas  in  his 
stomach,  and  it  didn't  kill  him." 

' '  What  they  claim  is  that  arsenic  was  in  the  pepper 
mint,"  said  Horace,  in  an  odd,  almost  indifferent  voice. 

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THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Arsenic  in  the  peppermint!"  repeated  Sylvia. 
"You  needn't  tell  me  Lucinda  Hart  put  arsenic  in 
the  peppermint,  though  I  dare  say  she  had  some  in 
the  house  to  kill  rats.  It's  likely  that  old  tavern 
was  overrun  with  them,  and  I  know  she  lost  her  cat 
a  few  weeks  ago.  She  told  me  herself.  He  was  shot 
when  he  was  out  hunting.  Lucinda  thought  some 
body  mistook  him  for  a  skunk.  She  felt  real  bad 
about  it.  I  feel  kind  of  guilty  myself.  I  can't  help 
thinking  if  I'd  just  looked  round  then  and  hunted  up 
a  kitten  for  poor  Lucinda,  she  never  would  have  had 
any  need  to  keep  rat  poison,  and  nobody  would  have 
suspected  her  of  such  an  awful  thing.  I  suppose 
Albion  Bennet  right  up  and  told  she'd  bought  it,  first 
thing.  I  think  he  might  have  kept  still,  as  long  as 
he'd  boarded  with  Lucinda,  and  as  many  favors  as 
she'd  showed  him.  He  knew  as  well  as  anybody  that 
she  never  gave  it  to  Miss  Parrel. " 

"Now,  Sylvia,  he  had  to  tell  if  he  was  asked," 
Henry  said,  soothingly,  for  Sylvia  was  beginning  to 
show  signs  of  hysterical  excitement.  "He  couldn't 
do  anything  else." 

"He  could  have  forgot,"  Sylvia  returned,  shrilly. 
"Men  ain't  so  awful  conscientious  about  forgetting. 
He  could  have  forgot." 

"He  had  to  tell,"  repeated  Henry.  "Don't  get 
all  wrought  up  over  it,  Sylvia." 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  begin  to  feel  guilty  myself.  I 
know  I  might  have  found  a  kitten.  I  had  a  lot  on 
my  mind,  with  moving  and  everything,  but  I  might 
have  done  it.  Albion  Bennet  never  had  the  spunk 
to  do  anything  but  tell  all  he  knew.  I  suppose  he 
was  afraid  of  his  own  precious  neck." 
6  73 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Ain't  it  most  time  to  see  about  dinner?"  asked 
Henry. 

Then  Sylvia  went  out  of  the  room  with  a  little 
hysterical  twitter  like  a  scared  bird,  and  the  two  men 
were  left  alone.  Silence  came  over  them  again. 
Both  men  looked  moodily  at  nothing.  Finally  Henry 
spoke. 

"One  of  the  worst  features  of  any  terrible  thing 
like  this  is  that  burdens  innumerable  are  either  heaped 
upon  the  shoulders  of  the  innocent,  or  they  assume 
them.  There's  my  poor  wife  actually  trying  to  make 
out  that  she  is  in  some  way  to  blame." 

"  Women  are  a  queer  lot,"  said  Horace,  in  a  miser 
able  tone. 

Then  the  door  opened  suddenly,  and  Sylvia's  thin, 
excited  face  appeared. 

"You  don't  suppose  they'll  send  them  to  prison?" 
she  said. 

"They'll  both  be  acquitted,"  said  Horace.  "Don't 
worry,  Mrs.  Whitman." 

"I've  got  to  worry.  How  can  I  help  worrying? 
Even  if  poor  Lucinda  is  acquitted,  lots  of  folks  will 
always  believe  it,  and  her  boarders  will  drop  away, 
and  as  for  Hannah  Simmons,  I  shouldn't  be  a  mite 
surprised  if  it  broke  her  match  off." 

"It's  a  dreadful  thing,"  said  Henry;  "but  don't  you 
fret  too  much  over  it,  Sylvia.  Maybe  she  killed  her 
self,  and  if  they  think  that  Lucinda  won't  have  any 
trouble  afterwards." 

"I  think  some  have  that  opinion  now,"  said 
Horace. 

Sylvia  sniffed.  "A  woman  don't  kill  herself  as 
long  as  she's  got  spirit  enough  to  fix  herself  up,"  she 

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THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

said.  "I  saw  her  only  yesterday  in  a  brand-new 
dress,  and  her  hair  was  crimped  tight  enough  to  last 
a  week,  and  her  cheeks — " 

"Come,  Sylvia,"  said  Henry,  admonishingly. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid.  I  ain't  going  to  talk  about 
them  that's  dead  and  gone,  and  especially  when 
they've  gone  in  such  a  dreadful  way;  and  maybe  it 
wasn't  true,"  said  Sylvia.  "But  it's  just  as  I  say: 
when  a  woman  is  fixed  up  the  way  Miss  Eliza  Farrel 
was  yesterday,  she  ain't  within  a  week  of  making  way 
with  herself.  Seems  as  if  I  might  have  had  fore 
thought  enough  to  have  got  that  kitten  for  poor 
Lucinda." 

Sylvia  went  out  again.  The  men  heard  the  rattle 
of  dishes.  Horace  rose  with  a  heavy  sigh,  which  was  al 
most  a  sob,  and  went  out  by  the  hall  door,  and  Henry 
heard  his  retreating  steps  on  the  stair.  He  frowned 
deeply  as  he  sat  by  the  window.  He,  too,  was  bearing 
in  some  measure  the  burden  of  which  he  had  spoken. 
It  seemed  to  him  very  strange  that  under  the  circum 
stances  Horace  had  not  explained  his  mysterious  meet 
ing  with  the  woman  in  the  grove  north  of  the  house 
the  night  before.  Henry  had  a  certainty  as  to  her 
identity — a  certainty  which  he  could  not  explain  to 
himself,  but  which  was  none  the  less  fixed. 

No  suspicion  of  Horace,  as  far  as  the  murder  was 
concerned — if  murder  it  was — was  in  his  mind,  but 
he  did  entertain  a  suspicion  of  another  sort:  of  some 
possibly  guilty  secret  which  might  have  led  to  the 
tragedy.  "I  couldn't  feel  worse  if  he  was  my  own 
son,"  he  thought.  He  wished  desperately  that  he  had 
gone  out  in  the  grove  and  interrupted  the  interview. 
"I'm  old  enough  to  be  his  father,"  he  told  himself, 

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THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"and  I  know  what  young  men  are.  I'm  to  blame 
myself." 

When  he  heard  Horace's  approaching  footsteps  on 
the  stair  he  turned  his  face  stiffly  towards  the  window, 
and  did  not  look  up  when  the  young  man  entered  the 
room.  But  Horace  sat  down  opposite  and  began 
speaking  rapidly  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  don't  know  but  I  ought  to  go  to  Mr.  Meeks  with 
this  instead  of  you,"  he  said;  "and  I  don't  know 
that  I  ought  to  go  to  anybody,  but,  hang  it,  I  can't 
keep  the  little  I  know  to  myself  any  longer — that  is, 
I  can't  keep  the  whole  of  it.  Some  I  never  will  tell. 
Mr.  Whitman,  I  don't  know  the  exact  minute  Miss 
Hart  gave  her  that  confounded  peppermint,  and  Miss 
Hart  seems  rather  misty  about  it,  and  if  the  girl 
knows  she  won't  tell;  but  I  suspect  I  may  be  the  last 
person  who  saw  that  poor  woman  alive.  I  found  a 
note  waiting  for  me  from  her  when  I  arrived  yester 
day,  and — well,  she  wanted  to  see  me  alone  about 
something  very  particular,  and  she — "  Horace  paused 
and  reddened.  "Well,  you  know  what  women  are, 
and  of  course  there  was  really  no  place  at  the  hotel 
where  I  could  have  been  sure  of  a  private  interview 
with  her.  I  couldn't  go  to  her  room,  and  one  might 
as  well  talk  in  a  trolley-car  as  that  hotel  parlor; 
and  she  didn't  want  to  come  here  to  the  house  and 
be  closeted  with  me,  and  she  didn't  want  to  linger 
after  school,  for  those  school-girls  are  the  very  devil 
when  it  comes  to  seeing  anything;  and  though  I  will 
admit  it  does  sound  ridiculous  and  romantic,  I  don't 
see  myself  what  else  she  could  have  done.  She  asked 
me  in  her  note  to  step  out  in  the  grove  about  ten 
o'clock,  when  the  house  was  quiet.  She  wrote  she 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

had  something  very  important  to  say  to  me.  So  I 
felt  like  a  fool,  but  I  didn't  go  to  bed,  and  I  stole 
down  the  front  stairs,  and  she  was  out  there  in  the 
grove  waiting  for  me,  and  we  sat  down  on  the  bench 
there  and  she  told  me  some  things." 

Henry  nodded  gravely.  He  now  looked  at  Horace, 
and  there  was  relief  in  his  frowning  face. 

"I  can  tell  you  some  of  the  things  that  she  said  to 
me,"  continued  Horace,  "and  I  am  going  to.  You 
are  connected  with  it — that  is,  you  are  through  your 
wife.  Miss  Parrel  wasn't  Miss  at  all.  She  was  a 
married  woman."  Henry  nodded  again.  "She  had 
not  lived  with  her  husband  long,  however,  and  she 
had  been  married  some  twenty  years  ago.  She  was 
older  than  she  looked.  For  some  reason  she  did  not 
get  on  with  him,  and  he  left  her.  I  don't  myself  feel 
that  I  know  what  the  reason  was,  although  she  pre 
tended  to  tell  me.  She  seemed  to  have  a  feeling,  poor 
soul,  that,  beautiful  as  she  was,  she  excited  repulsion 
rather  than  affection  in  everybody  with  whom  she 
came  in  contact.  'I  might  as  well  be  a  snake  as  a 
woman.'  Those  were  just  her  words,  and,  God  help 
her,  I  do  believe  there  was  something  true  about 
them,  although  for  the  life  of  me  I  don't  know  why 
it  was." 

Henry  looked  at  Horace  with  the  eyes  of  a  philoso 
pher.  "Maybe  it  was  because  she  wanted  to  charm," 
he  said. 

Horace  shot  a  surprised  glance  at  him.  He  had 
not  expected  anything  like  that  from  Henry,  even 
though  he  had  long  said  to  himself  that  there  were 
depths  below  the  commonplace  surface. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said,  reflectively.  "I 
77 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

don't  know  but  you  are.  She  was  a  great  beauty, 
and  possibly  the  knowledge  of  it  made  her  demand 
too  much,  long  for  too  much,  so  that  people  dimly 
realized  it  and  were  repelled  instead  of  being  at 
tracted.  I  think  she  loved  her  husband  for  a  long 
time  after  he  left  her.  I  think  she  loved  many  oth 
ers,  men  and  women.  I  think  she  loved  women  bet 
ter  than  a  woman  usually  does,  and  women  could  not 
abide  her.  That  I  know ;  even  the  school-girls  fought 
shy  of  her." 

"I  have  seen  the  Ayres  girl  with  her,"  said  Henry. 

Horace  changed  color.  "She  is  not  one  of  the 
school-girls,"  he  replied,  hastily. 

"I  think  I  have  heard  Sylvia  say  that  Mrs.  Ayres 
had  asked  her  there  to  tea." 

"Yes,  I  believe  she  has.  I  think  perhaps  the 
Ayres  family  have  paid  some  attention  to  her," 
Horace  said,  constrainedly. 

"I  have  seen  the  Ayres  girl  with  her  a  good  deal, 
I  know,"  said  Henry. 

"Very  possibly,  I  dare  say.  Well,  Miss  Parrel  did 
not  think  she  or  any  one  else  cared  about  her  very 
much.  She  told  me  that  none  of  her  pupils  did,  and 
I  could  not  gainsay  her,  and  then  she  told  me  what  I 
feel  that  I  must  tell  you."  Horace  paused.  Henry 
waited. 

Then  Horace  resumed.  He  spoke  briefly  and  to 
the  purpose. 

"Miss  Abrahama  White,  who  left  her  property  to 
your  wife,  had  a  sister,"  he  said.  "The  sister  went 
away  and  married,  and  there  was  a  daughter.  First 
the  father  died,  then  the  mother.  The  daughter,  a 
mere  child  at  the  time,  was  left  entirely  destitute. 

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THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Miss  Parrel  took  charge  of  her.  She  did  not  tell  her 
the  truth.  She  wished  to  establish  if  possible  some 
claim  upon  her  affection.  She  considered  that  to 
claim  a  relationship  would  be  the  best  way  to  further 
her  purpose.  The  girl  was  told  that  Miss  Farrel  was 
her  mother's  cousin.  She  was  further  told  that  she 
had  inherited  a  very  considerable  property  from  her 
mother,  whereas  she  had  not  inherited  one  cent.  Miss 
Farrel  gave  up  her  entire  fortune  to  the  child.  She 
then,  with  the  nervous  dread  of  awakening  dislike 
instead  of  love  which  filled  her  very  soul,  managed 
to  have  the  child,  in  her  character  of  an  heiress,  es 
tablished  in  a  family  moving  in  the  best  circles,  but 
sadly  in  need  of  money.  Then  she  left  her,  and  be 
gan  supporting  herself  by  teaching.  The  girl  is  now 
grown  to  be  a  young  woman,  and  Miss  Farrel  has  not 
dared  see  her  more  than  twice  since  she  heaped  such 
benefits  upon  her.  It  has  been  her  dream  that  some 
day  she  might  reveal  the  truth,  and  that  gratitude 
might  induce  love,  but  she  has  never  dared  put  it  to 
the  test.  Lately  she  has  not  been  very  well,  and  the 
thought  has  evidently  come  to  her  more  than  once 
that  she  might  die  and  never  accomplish  her  purpose. 
I  almost  think  the  poor  woman  had  a  premonition. 
She  gave  me  last  night  the  girl's  address,  and  she 
made  me  promise  that  in  case  of  her  death  she  should 
be  sent  for.  'I  can't  bear  to  think  that  nobody  will 
come,'  she  said.  Of  course  I  laughed  at  her.  I 
thought  her  very  morbid,  but — well,  I  have  tele 
graphed  to  the  girl  to  come  in  time  for  the  funeral. 
She  is  in  New  York.  She  and  the  people  with  whom 
she  lives  have  just  returned  from  the  South." 
"She  must  come  here,"  Henry  said. 
79 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  could  think  of  no  other  place,"  said  Horace. 
"You  think  Mrs.  Whitman—" 

"Of  course,"  Henry  said.  He  started  up  to  speak 
to  Sylvia,  but  Horace  stopped  him. 

"I  forgot,"  he  said,  quickly.  "Miss  Parrel  asked 
me  to  promise  that  I  should  not  tell  the  girl,  in  case 
of  her  death  before  she  had  an  opportunity  of  doing 
so,  of  what  she  had  done  for  her.  '  Let  her  come  just 
because  she  thinks  I  am  her  relative,'  she  said,  'and 
because  she  may  possibly  feel  kindly  towards  me. 
If  I  can  have  no  comfort  from  it  while  I  am  alive, 
there  is  no  need  for  her  to  know  her  obligation."1 

"It  sounds  like  a  mighty  queer  story  to  tell  Sylvia," 
Henry  said.  Then  he  opened  the  door  and  called, 
and  Mrs.  Whitman  immediately  responded.  Her  hands 
were  white  with  flour.  She  had  been  making  biscuits. 
She  still  looked  nervous  and  excited. 

"What  is  to  pay  now?"  said  she. 

Henry  told  her  in  few  words. 

"You  mean  that  Abrahama's  niece  was  taken  care 
of  by  Miss  Parrel  when  her  mother  died,  and  Miss 
Parrel  got  a  place  for  her  to  live  with  some  New  York 
folks,  and  you  mean  Miss  Parrel  was  related  to  her 
mother?"  said  Sylvia.  She  looked  sharply  at  Henry. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  feebly.  Horace  stood  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

"She  wa'n't,"  said  Sylvia. 

"Now,  Sylvia." 

"If  that  poor  woman  that's  gone  wanted  the  girl 
to  think  she  was  her  relation  enough  to  lie  about  it 
I  sha'n't  tell  her,  you  can  depend  on  that;  but  it's  a 
lie,"  said  Sylvia.  "Miss  Parrel  wa'n't  no  relation  at 
all  to  Susy  White.  She  couldn't  have  been  unless  she 

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THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

was  related  to  me,  too,  on  my  mother's  side,  and  she 
wa'n't.  I  know  all  about  my  mother's  family.  But 
I  sha'n't  tell  her.  I'm  glad  Miss  Parrel  got  a  home 
for  her.  It  was  awful  that  the  child  was  left  without 
a  cent.  Of  course  she  must  come  here,  and  stay, 
too.  She  ought  to  live  with  her  folks.  We've  got 
enough  to  take  care  of  her.  If  we  can't  do  as  much 
as  rich  folks,  I  guess  it  will  be  full  as  well  for  the 
girl." 

Henry  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but  a  glance  from 
Horace  checked  him.  Sylvia  went  on  talking  ner 
vously.  The  odd  manner  and  tone  which  Henry  had 
noticed  lately  in  everything  she  said  and  did  seemed 
intensified.  She  talked  about  what  room  she  should 
make  ready  for  the  girl.  She  made  plan  after  plan. 
She  was  very  pale,  then  she  flushed.  She  walked  aim 
lessly  about  gesturing  with  her  floury  hands. 

Finally  Henry  took  her  firmly  by  the  shoulder. 
"Come,  Sylvia,"  he  said,  "she  won't  be  here  until 
night.  Now  you  had  better  get  dinner.  It's  past 
twelve."  Sylvia  gave  a  quick,  frightened  glance  at 
him.  Then  she  went  silently  out  of  the  room. 

"Mrs.  Whitman  does  not  seem  well,"  Horace  said, 
softly. 

"I  think  her  nerves  are  all  out  of  order  with  what 
she  has  gone  through  with  lately,"  said  Henry.  "It 
has  been  a  great  change  that  has  come  to  us  both, 
Mr.  Allen.  When  a  man  and  woman  have  lived  past 
their  youth,  and  made  up  their  minds  to  bread  and 
butter,  and  nothing  else,  and  be  thankful  if  you  get 
that  much,  it  seems  more  like  a  slap  than  a  gift  of 
Providence  to  have  mince-pie  thrust  into  their  mouths. 
It  has  been  too  much  for  Sylvia,  and  now,  of  course, 

81 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

this  awful  thing  that  has  happened  has  upset  her, 
and—" 

He  stopped,  for  Sylvia  opened  the  door  suddenly. 
"If  she  wa'n't  dead  and  gone,  I  wouldn't  believe  one 
word  of  such  a  tomfool  story,"  said  she,  with  vicious 
energy.  Then  she  shut  the  door  again. 

At  dinner  Sylvia  ate  nothing,  and  did  not  talk. 
Neither  Henry  nor  Horace  said  much.  In  the  after 
noon  Horace  went  out  to  make  some  arrangements 
which  he  had  taken  upon  himself  with  regard  to  the 
dead  woman,  and  presently  Henry  followed  him. 
Sylvia  worked  with  feverish  energy  all  the  afternoon 
setting  a  room  in  order  for  her  expected  guest.  It 
was  a  pretty  room,  with  an  old-fashioned  paper — a 
sprawling  rose  pattern  on  a  tarnished  satin  ground. 
The  room  overlooked  the  grove,  and  green  branches 
pressed  close  against  two  windows.  There  was  a 
pretty,  old-fashioned  dressing-table  between  the  front 
windows,  and  Sylvia  picked  a  bunch  of  flowers  and 
put  them  in  a  china  vase,  and  set  it  under  the  glass, 
and  thought  of  the  girl's  face  which  it  would  presently 
reflect. 

"I  wonder  if  she  looks  like  her  mother,"  she  thought. 
She  stood  gazing  at  the  glass,  and  shivered  as  though 
with  cold.  Then  she  started  at  a  sound  of  wheels 
outside.  In  front  of  the  house  was  Leander  Willard, 
who  kept  the  livery-stable  of  East  Westland.  He 
was  descending  in  shambling  fashion  over  the  front 
wheels,  steadying  at  the  same  time  a  trunk  on  the 
front  seat;  and  Horace  Allen  sprang  out  of  the  back 
of  the  carriage  and  assisted  a  girl  in  a  flutter  of  dark- 
blue  skirts  and  veil.  "She's  come!"  said  Sylvia. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SYLVIA  gave  a  hurried  glance  at  her  hair  in  the 
glass.  It  shone  like  satin  with  a  gray-gold  lustre, 
folded  back  smoothly  from  her  temples.  She  eyed 
with  a  little  surprise  the  red  spots  of  excitement  which 
still  remained  on  her  cheeks.  The  changelessness  of 
her  elderly  visage  had  been  evident  to  her  so  long 
that  she  was  startled  to  see  anything  else.  "I  look 
as  if  I  had  been  pulled  through  a  knot-hole,"  she 
muttered. 

She  took  off  her  gingham  apron,  thrust  it  hastily 
into  a  bureau  drawer  in  the  next  room,  and  tied  on  a 
clean  white  one  with  a  hemstitched  border.  Then 
she  went  down-stairs,  the  starched  white  bow  of  the 
apron-strings  covering  her  slim  back  like  a  Japanese 
sash.  She  heard  voices  in  the  south  room,  and  en 
tered  with  a  little  cough.  Horace  and  the  new-comer 
were  standing  there  talking.  The  moment  Sylvia  en 
tered,  Horace  stepped  forward.  "I  hardly  know  how 
to  introduce  you,"  he  said;  "I  hardly  know  the  re 
lationship.  But,  Mrs.  Whitman,  here  is  Miss  Fletcher 
—Miss  Rose  Fletcher." 

"Who  accepts  your  hospitality  with  the  utmost 
gratitude,"  said  Miss  Rose  Fletcher,  extending  a  lit 
tle  hand  in  a  wonderful  loose  gray  travelling  glove. 
Mrs.  Whitman  took  the  offered  hand  and  let  it  drop. 

83 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

She  was  rigid  and  prim.  She  smiled,  but  the  smile 
was  merely  a  widening  of  her  thin,  pale,  compressed 
lips.  She  looked  at  the  girl  with  gray  eyes,  which 
had  a  curious  blank  sharpness  in  them.  Rose 
Fletcher  was  so  very  well  dressed,  so  very  redolent  of 
good  breeding  and  style,  that  it  was  difficult  at  first 
to  comprehend  if  that  was  all.  Finally  one  perceived 
that  she  was  a  very  pretty  girl,  of  a  sweet,  childish 
type,  in  spite  of  her  finished  manners  and  her  very 
sophisticated  clothes.  Sylvia  at  first  saw  nothing 
except  the  clothes,  and  realized  nothing  except  the 
finished  manner.  She  immediately  called  to  the  front 
her  own  manners,  which  were  as  finished  as  the  girl's, 
albeit  of  a  provincial  type.  Extreme  manners  in 
East  Westland  required  a  wholly  artificial  voice  and 
an  expression  wholly  foreign  to  the  usual  one.  Horace 
had  never  before  seen  Sylvia  when  all  her  manners 
were  in  evidence,  and  he  gazed  at  her  now  in  as 
tonishment  and  some  dismay. 

"Her  mother  was  own  sister  to  Miss  Abrahama 
White,  and  Abrahama  White's  mother  and  my  mother 
were  own  cousins  on  the  mother's  side.  My  mother 
was  a  White,"  she  said.  The  voice  came  like  a 
slender,  reedy  whistle  from  between  her  moveless, 
widened  lips.  She  stood  as  if  encased  in  armor.  Her 
apron-strings  stood  out  fiercely  and  were  quite  evi 
dent  over  each  hip.  She  held  her  head  very  high, 
and  the  cords  on  her  long,  thin  neck  stood  out. 

Poor  Rose  Fletcher  looked  a  little  scared  and  a 
little  amused.  She  cast  a  glance  at  Horace,  as  if  for 
help.  He  did  not  know  what  to  say,  but  tried  man 
fully  to  say  it.  "I  have  never  fully  known,  in  such 
a  case,"  he  remarked,  "whether  the  relationship  is 

84 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

second  cousin  or  first  cousin  once  removed."  It 
really  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  known.  He 
looked  up  with  relief  as  Henry  entered  the  room,  and 
Sylvia  turned  to  him,  still  with  her  manners  fully  in 
evidence. 

"Mr.  Whitman,  this  is  Miss  Abrahama  White's 
niece,"  said  she. 

She  bowed  stiffly  herself  as  Henry  bowed.  He 
was  accustomed  to  Sylvia's  company  manners,  but 
still  he  was  not  himself.  He  had  never  seen  a  girl 
like  this,  and  he  was  secretly  both  angry  and  alarmed 
to  note  the  difference  between  her  and  Sylvia,  and 
all  women  to  which  he  had  been  used.  However, 
his  expression  changed  directly  before  the  quick 
look  of  pretty,  childish  appeal  which  the  girl  gave 
him.  It  was  Rose's  first  advance  to  all  men  whom 
she  met,  her  little  feeler  put  out  to  determine  their 
dispositions  towards  her.  It  was  quite  involuntary. 
She  was  unconscious  of  it,  but  it  was  as  if  she  said  in 
so  many  words,  "Do  you  mean  to  be  kind  to  me? 
Don't  you  like  the  look  of  me  ?  I  mean  entirely  well. 
There  is  no  harm  in  me.  Please  don't  dislike  me." 

Sylvia  saw  the  glance  and  interpreted  it.  "She 
looks  like  her  mother,"  she  announced,  harshly.  It 
was  part  of  Sylvia's  extreme  manners  to  address  a 
guest  in  the  third  person.  However,  in  this  case,  it 
was  in  reality  the  clothes  which  had  occasioned  so 
much  formality.  She  immediately,  after  she  had 
spoken  and  Henry  had  awkwardly  murmured  his 
assent  to  her  opinion,  noticed  how  tired  the  girl 
looked.  She  was  a  slender  little  thing,  and  looked 
delicate  in  spite  of  a  babyish  roundness  of  face,  which 
was  due  to  bone-formation  rather  than  flesh. 

8s 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Sylvia  gave  an  impression  of  shoving  the  men 
aside  as  she  approached  the  girl.  "You  look  tired 
to  death,"  said  she,  and  there  was  a  sweet  tone  in  her 
forced  voice. 

Rose  brightened,  and  smiled  at  her  like  a  pleased 
child.  "Oh,  I  am  very  tired!"  she  cried.  "I  must 
confess  to  being  very  tired,  indeed.  The  train  was 
so  fast.  I  came  on  the  limited  from  New  York,  you 
know,  and  the  soft-coal  smoke  made  me  ill,  and  I 
couldn't  eat  anything,  even  if  there  had  been  anything 
to  eat  which  wasn't  all  full  of  cinders.  I  shall  be 
so  very  glad  of  a  bath  and  an  opportunity  to  change 
my  gown.  I  shall  have  to  beg  you  to  allow  your 
maid  to  assist  me  a  little.  My  own  maid  got  married 
last  week,  unexpectedly,  and  I  have  not  yet  replaced 
her." 

"I  don't  keep  a  hired  girl,"  said  Sylvia.  She  look 
ed,  as  Henry  had,  both  angry  and  abashed.  "I  will 
fasten  up  your  dress  in  the  neck  if  that  is  what  you 
want,"  said  she. 

"Oh,  that  is  all,"  Rose  assured  her,  and  she  looked 
abashed,  too.  Even  sophistication  is  capable  of  being 
daunted  before  utterly  unknown  conditions.  She 
followed  Sylvia  meekly  up-stairs,  and  Henry  and 
Horace  carried  the  trunk,  which  had  been  left  on  the 
front  walk,  up  after  them. 

Leander  Willard  was  a  man  of  exceeding  dignity. 
He  was  never  willing  to  carry  a  trunk  even  into  a 
house.  "If  the  folks  that  the  trunk  belongs  to  can't 
heft  it  in  after  I've  brought  it  up  from  the  depot, 
let  it  set  out,"  he  said.  "I  drive  a  carriage  to  ac 
commodate,  but  I  ain't  no  porter." 

Therefore,  Henry  and  Horace  carried  up  the  trunk 
86 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

and  unstrapped  it.  Rose  looked  around  her  with 
delight.  "Oh,  what  a  lovely  room!"  she  cried. 

"It  gets  the  morning  sun,"  said  Sylvia.  "The 
paper  is  a  little  mite  faded,  but  otherwise  it's  just 
as  good  as  it  ever  was." 

"It  is  perfectly  charming,"  said  Rose.  She  tugged 
at  the  jewelled  pins  in  her  hat.  Sylvia  stood  watch 
ing  her.  When  she  had  succeeded  in  removing  the 
hat,  she  thrust  her  slender  fingers  through  her  fluff  of 
blond  hair  and  looked  in  the  glass.  Her  face  ap 
peared  over  the  bunch  of  flowers,  as  Sylvia  had 
thought  of  its  doing.  Rose  began  to  laugh.  "Good 
gracious!"  she  said.  "For  all  I  took  such  pains  to 
wash  my  face  in  the  lavatory,  there  is  a  great  black 
streak  on  my  left  cheek.  Sometimes  I  think  the 
Pullmans  are  dirtier  than  the  common  coaches — that 
more  soft-coal  smoke  comes  in  those  large  windows; 
don't  you  think  so?" 

Sylvia  colored,  but  her  honesty  was  fearless.  "I 
don't  know  what  a  Pullman  is,"  she  said. 

Rose  stared  for  a  second.  "Oh,  a  parlor-car,"  she 
said.  "A  great  many  people  always  say  parlor-car." 
Rose  was  almost  apologetic. 

"Did  you  come  in  a  parlor -car?"  asked  Sylvia. 
Rose  wondered  why  her  voice  was  so  amazed,  even 
aggressive. 

"Why,  of  course;  I  always  do,"  said  Rose. 

"I've  seen  them  go  through  here,"  said  Sylvia. 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  where  my  bath-room 
is?"  asked  Rose,  looking  vaguely  at  the  doors.  She 
opened  one.  "Oh,  this  is  a  closet!"  she  cried.  "What 
a  lovely  large  one!" 

"There  ain't  such  a  thing  as  a  bath-room  in  this 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

house,"  replied  Sylvia.  "Abrahama  White,  your 
aunt,  had  means,  but  she  always  thought  she  had 
better  ways  for  her  money  than  putting  in  bath 
rooms  to  freeze  up  in  winter  and  run  up  plumbers' 
bills.  There  ain't  any  bath-room,  but  there's  plenty 
of  good,  soft  rain-water  from  the  cistern  in  your 
pitcher  on  the  wash-stand  there,  and  there's  a  new 
cake  of  soap  and  plenty  of  clean  towels." 

Rose  reddened.  Again  sophistication  felt  abashed 
before  dauntless  ignorance.  She  ran  to  the  wash- 
stand.  "Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  she  cried.  "Of 
course  this  will  do  beautifully.  What  a  charming  old 
wash-stand ! — and  the  water  is  delightfully  soft. ' '  Rose 
began  splashing  water  over  her  face.  She  had  taken 
off  her  blue  travelling-gown  and  flung  it  in  a  heap 
over  a  chair.  Sylvia  straightened  it  out  carefully, 
noting  with  a  little  awe  the  rustle  of  its  silk  linings; 
then  she  hung  it  in  the  closet.  "I'll  hang  it  here, 
where  it  won't  get  all  of  a  muss,"  said  she.  Already 
she  began  to  feel  a  pleasure  which  she  had  never 
known — the  pleasure  of  chiding  a  young  creature  from 
the  heights  of  her  own  experience.  She  began  harshly, 
but  before  she  had  finished  her  voice  had  a  tender 
cadence. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  the  girl,  still  bending  over 
the  wash-basin.  "I  know  I  am  careless  with  my 
things.  You  see,  I  have  always  been  so  dependent 
upon  my  maid  to  straighten  out  everything  for  me. 
You  will  do  me  good.  You  will  teach  me  to  be 
careful." 

She  turned  around,  wiping  her  face,  and  smiling 
at  Sylvia,  who  felt  her  very  soul  melt  within  her, 
although  she  still  remained  rigidly  prim,  with  her 

88 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

stiff  apron-strings  standing  out  at  right  angles.  She 
looked  at  the  girl's  slender  arms  and  thin  neck,  which 
was  pretty  though  thin.  "You  don't  weigh  much, 
do  you?"  she  said. 

"  A  little  over  a  hundred,  I  think." 

"  You  must  eat  lots  of  fresh  vegetables  and  eggs, 
and  drink  milk,  and  get  more  flesh  on  your  bones," 
said  Sylvia,  and  her  voice  was  full  of  delight,  al 
though  now — as  always,  lately — a  vague  uneasiness 
lurked  in  her  eyes.  Rose,  regarding  her,  thought, 
with  a  simple  shrewdness  which  was  inborn,  that  her 
new  cousin  must  have  something  on  her  mind.  She 
wondered  if  it  was  her  aunt's  death.  "I  suppose  you 
thought  a  good  deal  of  my  aunt  who  died,"  she  vent 
ured,  timidly. 

Sylvia  regarded  her  with  quick  suspicion.  She 
paled  a  little.  "I  thought  enough  of  her,"  she  re 
plied.  ''She  had  always  lived  here.  We  were 
distant-related,  and  we  never  had  any  words,  but  I 
didn't  see  much  of  her.  She  kept  herself  to  herself, 
especially  of  late  years.  Of  course,  I  thought  enough 
of  her,  and  it  makes  me  feel  real  bad  sometimes— al 
though  I  own  I  can't  help  being  glad  to  have  so 
many  nice  things — to  think  she  had  to  go  away  and 
leave  them." 

"I  know  you  must  feel  so,"  said  Rose.  " I  suppose 
you  feel  sometimes  as  if  they  weren't  yours  at  all." 

Sylvia  turned  so  pale  that  Rose  started.  "Why, 
what  is  the  matter?  Are  you  ill?"  she  cried,  running 
to  her.  "Let  me  get  some  water  for  you.  You  are 
so  white." 

Sylvia  pushed  her  away.  "There's  nothing  the 
matter  with  me,"  she  said.  "Folks  can't  always  be 

7  89 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

the  same  color  unless  they're  painted."  She  gave 
her  head  a  shake  as  if  to  set  herself  right,  and  turned 
resolutely  towards  Rose's  trunk.  "Can  you  unpack, 
yourself,  or  do  you  want  me  to  help  you?"  she  asked. 

Rose  eyed  the  trunk  helplessly,  then  she  looked 
doubtfully  at  Sylvia.  A  woman  who  was  a  relative 
of  hers,  and  who  lived  in  a  really  grand  old  house, 
and  was  presumably  well-to-do,  and  had  no  maids  at 
command,  but  volunteered  to  do  the  service  herself, 
was  an  anomaly  to  her. 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  be  too  much  trouble,"  she  said, 
hesitatingly.  "Marie  always  unpacked  my  trunk,  but 
you  have  no — " 

"I  guess  if  I  had  a  girl  I  wouldn't  set  her  to  un 
packing  your  trunk , ' '  said  Sylvia ,  vigorously.  ' '  Where 
is  your  key?" 

"In  my  bag,"  replied  Rose,  and  she  searched  for 
the  key  in  her  dark-blue,  gold-trimmed  bag.  "Mrs. 
Wilton's  maid,  Anne,  packed  my  trunk  for  me," 
she  said.  "Anne  packs  very  nicely.  Mr.  Wilton 
and  her  sister,  Miss  Pamela  Mack,  did  not  know 
whether  I  ought  to  put  on  mourning  or  not  for  Cousin 
Eliza,  but  they  said  it  would  be  only  proper  for  me 
to  wear  black  to  the  funeral.  So  I  have  a  ready- 
made  black  gown  and  hat  in  the  trunk.  I  hardly 
knew  how  much  to  bring.  I  did  not  know — "  She 
stopped.  She  had  intended  to  say — "how  long  I 
should  stay,"  but  she  was  afraid. 

Sylvia  finished  for  her.  "You  can  stay  just  as 
long  as  you  are  a  mind  to,"  said  she.  "You  can  live 
here  all  the  rest  of  your  life,  as  far  as  that  is  con 
cerned.  You  are  welcome.  It  would  suit  me,  and  it 
would  suit  Mr.  Whitman." 

90 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Rose  looked  at  Sylvia  in  amazement  as  she  knelt 
stiffly  on  the  floor  unlocking  her  trunk.  "Thank 
you,  you  are  very  kind,"  she  said,  feebly.  She  had 
a  slight  sensation  of  fear  at  such  a  wealth  of  hospi 
tality  offered  her  from  a  stranger,  although  she  was  a 
distant  relative. 

"You  know  this  was  your  own  aunt's  house  and 
your  own  aunt's  things,"  said  Sylvia,  beginning  to 
remove  articles  from  the  trunk,  "and  I  want  you  to 
feel  at  home  here — just  as  if  you  had  a  right  here." 
The  words  were  cordial,  but  there  was  a  curious  effect 
as  if  she  were  repeating  a  well-rehearsed  lesson. 

"Thank  you,"  Rose  said  again,  more  feebly  than 
before.  She  watched  Sylvia  lifting  out  gingerly  a 
fluffy  white  gown,  which  trailed  over  her  lean  arm 
to  the  floor.  "That  is  a  tea-gown;  I  think  I  will  put 
it  on  now,"  said  Rose.  "It  will  be  so  comfortable, 
and  you  are  not  formal  here,  are  you?" 

"Eh?" 

"You  are  not  formal  here  in  East  Westland,  are 
you?" 

"No,"  replied  Sylvia,  "we  ain't  formal.  So  you 
want  to  put  on — this?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  will." 

Sylvia  laid  the  tea-gown  on  the  bed,  and  turned  to 
the  trunk  again. 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  Aunt  Abrahama  and 
mamma  were  estranged  for  years  before  mamma 
died,"  said  Rose.  She  sat  before  the  white  dressing- 
table  watching  Sylvia,  and  the  lovely  turn  of  her 
neck  and  her  blond  head  were  reflected  in  the  glass 
above  the  vase  of  flowers. 

"Yes,  I  knew  something  about  it," 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  never  did  know  much,  except  that  Aunt  Abra- 
hama  did  not  approve  of  mamma's  marriage,  and  we 
never  saw  her  nor  heard  of  her.  Wasn't  it  strange," 
she  went  on,  confidentially,  "how  soon  after  poor 
mamma's  death  all  my  money  came  to  me?" 

Sylvia  turned  on  her.  "Have  you  got  money?" 
said  she.  "I  thought  you  were  poor." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  have  a  great  deal  of  money.  I 
don't  know  how  much.  My  lawyers  take  care  of  it, 
and  there  is  a  trustee,  who  is  very  kind.  He  is  a 
lawyer,  too.  He  was  a  friend  of  poor  Cousin  Eliza's. 
His  name  is  McAllister.  He  lives  in  Chicago,  but 
he  comes  to  New  York  quite  often.  He  is  quite 
an  old  gentleman,  but  very  nice  indeed.  Oh  yes, 
I  have  plenty  of  money.  I  always  have  had  ever 
since  mamma  died — at  least,  since  a  short  time  after. 
But  we  were  very  poor,  I  think,  after  papa  died.  I 
think  we  must  have  been.  I  was  only  a  little  girl 
when  mamma  died,  but  I  seem  to  remember  living 
in  a  very  little,  shabby  place  in  New  York — very 
little  and  shabby — and  I  seem  to  remember  a  great 
deal  of  noise.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  we  could  have 
lived  beside  the  elevated  road.  It  does  not  seem 
possible  that  we  could  have  been  as  poor  as  that,  but 
sometimes  I  do  wonder.  And  I  seem  to  remember 
a  close  smell  about  our  rooms,  and  that  they  were 
very  hot,  and  I  remember  when  poor  mamma  died, 
although  I  was  so  young.  I  remember  a  great  many 
people,  who  seemed  very  kind,  came  in,  and  after  that 
I  was  in  a  place  with  a  good  many  other  little  girls. 
I  suppose  it  was  a  school.  And  then — "  Rose  stopped 
and  turned  white,  and  a  look  of  horror  came  over  her 
face. 

92 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Whatthen?"  asked  Sylvia.  "  Don't  you  feel  well, 
child?" 

"Yes,  I  feel  well — as  well  as  I  ever  feel  when  I  al 
most  remember  something  terrible  and  never  quite  do. 
Oh,  I  hope  I  never  shall  quite  remember.  I  think 
I  should  die  if  I  did." 

Sylvia  stared  at  her.  Rose's  face  was  fairly  con 
vulsed.  Sylvia  rose  and  hesitated  a  moment,  then 
she  stepped  close  to  the  girl  and  pulled  the  fair  head 
to  her  lean  shoulder.  "Don't;  you  mustn't  take  on 
so,"  she  said.  "Don't  try  to  remember  anything  if 
it  makes  you  feel  like  that.  You'll  be  down  sick." 

"I  am  trying  not  to  remember,  and  always  the 
awful  dread  lest  I  shall  comes  over  me,"  sobbed  the 
girl.  "Mr.  McAllister  says  not  to  try  to  remember, 
too,  but  I  am  so  horribly  afraid  that  I  shall  try  in  spite 
of  me.  Mrs.  Wilton  and  Miss  Pamela  don't  know 
anything  about  it.  I  never  said  anything  about  it  to 
them.  I  did  once  to  Mr.  McAllister,  and  I  did  to 
Cousin  Eliza,  and  she  said  not  to  try,  and  now  I  am 
telling  you,  I  suppose  because  you  are  related  to  me. 
It  came  over  me  all  of  a  sudden." 

Rose  sobbed  again.  Sylvia  smoothed  her  hair, 
then  she  shook  her  by  the  slender,  soft  shoulders,  and 
again  that  overpowering  delight  seized  her.  "Come, 
now,"  she  said,  "don't  you  cry  another  minute.  You 
get  up  and  lay  your  underclothes  away  in  the  bureau 
drawers.  It's  almost  time  to  get  supper,  and  I  can't 
spend  much  more  time  here." 

Rose  obeyed.  She  packed  away  piles  of  laced  and 
embroidered  things  in  the  bureau  drawers,  and  under 
Sylvia's  directions  hung  up  her  gowns  in  the  closet. 
As  she  did  this  she  volunteered  further  information. 

93 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  do  remember  one  thing,"  she  said,  with  a  shud 
der,  "and  I  always  know  if  I  could  remember  back 
of  that  the  dreadful  thing  would  come  to  me."  She 
paused  for  a  moment,  then  she  said,  in  a  shocked 
voice:  "Mrs.  Whitman." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  really  do  remember  that  I  was  in  a  hospital 
once  when  I  was  little.  I  remember  the  nurses  and 
the  little  white  beds.  That  was  not  dreadful  at  all. 
Everybody  petted  me,  but  that  was  when  the  trying 
not  to  remember  began." 

"Don't  you  think  of  it  another  minute,"  Sylvia 
said,  sternly. 

"I  won't;  I  won't,  really.     I—" 

"For  goodness'  sake,  child,  don't  hang  that  heavy 
coat  over  that  lace  waist — you'll  ruin  it!"  cried  Sylvia. 

Rose  removed  the  coat  hurriedly,  and  resumed,  as 
Sylvia  took  it  out  of  her  hand:  "It  was  right  after 
that  Cousin  Eliza  Parrel  came,  and  then  all  that 
money  was  left  to  me  by  a  cousin  of  father's,  who  died. 
Then  I  went  to  live  with  Mrs.  Wilton  and  Miss  Pamela, 
and  I  went  to  school,  and  I  went  abroad,  and  I  always 
had  plenty,  and  never  any  trouble,  except  once  in  a 
while  being  afraid  I  should  remember  something 
dreadful.  Poor  Cousin  Eliza  Parrel  taught  school 
all  the  time.  I  never  saw  her  but  twice  after  the 
first  time.  When  I  grew  older  I  tried  to  have  her 
come  and  live  with  me.  Mrs.  Wilton  and  Miss  Pamela 
have  always  been  very  nice  to  me,  but  I  have  never 
loved  them.  I  could  never  seem  to  get  at  enough 
of  them  to  love." 

"You  had  better  put  on  that  now,"  said  Sylvia,  in 
dicating  the  fluffy  mass  on  the  bed.  "I'll  help  you." 

94 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  don't  like  to  trouble  you,"  Rose  said,  almost 
pitifully,  but  she  stood  still  while  Sylvia,  again  with 
that  odd  sensation  of  delight,  slipped  over  the  young 
head  a  lace-trimmed  petticoat,  and  fastened  it,  and 
then  the  tea-gown.  The  older  woman  dressed  the  girl 
with  exactly  the  same  sensations  that  she  might  have 
experienced  in  dressing  her  own  baby  for  the  first 
time.  When  the  toilet  was  completed  she  viewed  the 
result,  however,  with  something  that  savored  of  dis 
approval. 

Rose,  after  looking  in  the  glass  at  her  young  beauty 
in  its  setting  of  lace  and  silk,  looked  into  Sylvia's  face 
for  the  admiration  which  she  felt  sure  of  seeing  there, 
and  shrank.  "What  is  the  matter?  Don't  I  look 
nice?"  she  faltered. 

Sylvia  looked  critically  at  the  sleeves  of  the  tea- 
gown,  which  were  mere  puffs  of  snowy  lace,  streaming 
with  narrow  ribbons,  reaching  to  the  elbow.  "Do 
they  wear  sleeves  like  that  now  in  New  York?"  asked 
she. 

"Why,  yes!"  replied  Rose.  "This  tea-gown  came 
home  only  last  week  from  Madame  Felix." 

"They  wear  sleeves  puffed  at  the  bottom  instead 
of  the  top,  and  a  good  deal  longer,  in  East  West- 
land,"  said  Sylvia. 

"Why,  this  was  made  from  a  Paris  model,"  said 
Rose,  meekly.  Again  sophistication  was  abashed  be 
fore  the  confidence  of  conservatism. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  Paris  models,"  said 
Sylvia.  "Mrs.  Greenaway  gets  all  her  patterns  right 
from  Boston." 

"I  hardly  think  madame  would  have  made  the 
sleeves  this  way  unless  it  was  the  latest,"  said  Rose. 

95 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  the  latest,"  said 
Sylvia.  "We  folks  here  in  East  Westland  try  to  get 
the  best.1'  Sylvia  felt  as  if  she  were  chiding  her  own 
daughter.  She  spoke  sternly,  but  her  eyes  beamed 
with  pleasure.  The  young  girl's  discomfiture  seemed 
to  sweeten  her  very  soul. 

"For  mercy's  sake,  hold  up  your  dress  going  down 
stairs,"  she  admonished.  "I  swept  the  stairs  this 
morning,  but  the  dust  gathers  before  you  can  say 
boo,  and  that  dress  won't  do  up." 

Rose  gathered  up  the  tail  of  her  gown  obediently, 
and  she  also  experienced  a  certain  odd  pleasure. 
New  England  blood  was  in  her  veins.  It  was  some 
thing  new  and  precious  to  be  admonished  as  a  New 
England  girl  might  be  admonished  by  a  fond  mother. 

When  she  went  into  the  south  room,  still  clinging 
timidly  to  her  lace  train,  Horace  rose.  Henry  sat 
still.  He  looked  at  her  with  pleased  interest,  but  it 
did  not  occur  to  him  to  rise.  Horace  always  rose 
when  Sylvia  entered  a  room,  and  Henry  always  rather 
resented  it.  "Putting  on  society  airs,"  he  thought 
to  himself,  with  a  sneer. 

However,  he  smiled  involuntarily;  the  girl  was  so 
very  pretty  and  so  very  unlike  anything  which  he 
had  ever  seen.  "Dressed  up  as  if  she  were  going  to 
a  ball,  in  a  dress  made  like  a  night-gown,"  he  thought, 
but  he  smiled.  As  for  Horace,  he  felt  dazzled.  He 
had  scarcely  realized  how  pretty  Rose  was  under  the 
dark-blue  mist  of  her  veil.  He  placed  a  chair  for  her, 
and  began  talking  about  the  journey  and  the  weather 
while  Sylvia  got  supper.  Henry  was  reading  the  local 
paper.  Rose's  eyes  kept  wandering  to  that.  Sud 
denly  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  was  across  the  room  in 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

a  white  swirl,  and  snatched  the  paper  from  Henry's 
hands. 

"What  is  this,  oh,  what  is  this?"  she  cried  out. 

She  had  read  before  Horace  could  stop  her.  She 
turned  upon  him,  then  upon  Henry.  Her  face  was 
very  pale  and  working  with  emotion. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "you  only  telegraphed  me  that 
poor  Cousin  Eliza  was  dead!  You  did  not  either  of 
you  tell  me  she  was  murdered.  I  loved  her,  although 
I  had  not  seen  her  for  years,  because  I  have  so  few 
to  whom  my  love  seemed  to  belong.  I  was  sorry 
because  she  was  dead,  but  murdered!" 

Rose  threw  herself  on  a  chair,  and  sobbed  and 
sobbed. 

"I  loved  her;  I  did  love  her,"  she  kept  repeating, 
like  a  distressed  child.  "I  did  love  her,  poor  Cousin 
Eliza,  and  she  was  murdered.  I  did  love  her." 


CHAPTER  IX 

HORACE  was  right  in  his  assumption  that  the  case 
against  Lucinda  Hart  and  Hannah  Simmons  would 
never  be  pressed.  Although  it  was  proved  beyond 
a  doubt  that  Eliza  Parrel  had  swallowed  arsenic  in  a 
sufficiently  large  quantity  to  cause  death,  the  utter 
absence  of  motive  was  in  the  favor  of  the  accused, 
and  then  the  suspicion  that  the  poison  might  have 
been  self-administered,  if  not  with  suicidal  intent, 
with  another,  steadily  gained  ground.  Many  thought 
Miss  Parrel's  wonderful  complexion  might  easily  have 
been  induced  by  the  use  of  arsenic. 

At  all  events,  the  evidence  against  Lucinda  and 
Hannah,  when  sifted,  was  so  exceedingly  flimsy,  and 
the  lack  of  motive  grew  so  evident,  that  there  was  no 
further  question  of  bringing  them  to  trial.  Still  the 
suspicion,  once  raised,  grew  like  a  weed,  as  suspicion 
does  grow  in  the  ready  soil  of  the  human  heart.  For 
a  month  after  the  tragedy  it  seemed  as  if  Sylvia  Whit 
man's  prophecy  concerning  the  falling  off  of  the  hotel 
guests  was  destined  to  fail.  The  old  hostelry  was 
crowded.  Newspaper  men  and  women  from  all  parts 
of  the  country  flocked  there,  and  also  many  not  con 
nected  with  the  press,  who  were  morbidly  curious  and 
revelled  in  the  sickly  excitement  of  thinking  they 
might  be  living  in  the  house  of  a  poisoner.  Lucinda 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Hart  sent  in  her  resignation  from  the  church  choir. 
Her  experience,  the  first  time  she  had  sung  after  Eliza 
Parrel's  death,  did  not  exactly  daunt  her;  she  was 
not  easily  daunted.  But  she  had  raised  her  husky 
contralto,  and  lifted  her  elderly  head  in  its  flowered 
bonnet  before  that  watchful  audience  of  old  friends 
and  neighbors,  and  had  gone  home  and  written  her 
stiffly  worded  note  of  resignation. 

She  attended  church  the  following  Sunday.  She 
said  to  herself  that  her  absence  might  lead  people  to 
think  there  was  some  ground  for  the  awful  charge 
which  had  been  brought  against  her.  She  bought  a 
smart  new  bonnet  and  sat  among  the  audience,  and 
heard  Lucy  Ayres,  who  had  a  beautiful  contralto, 
sing  in  her  place.  Lucy  sang  well,  and  looked  very 
pretty  in  her  lace  blouse  and  white  hat,  but  she  was 
so  pale  that  people  commented  on  it.  Sylvia,  who 
showed  a  fairly  antagonistic  partisanship  for  Lucinda, 
spoke  to  her  as  she  came  out  of  church,  and  walked 
with  her  until  their  roads  divided.  Sylvia  left  Henry 
to  follow  with  Rose  Fletcher,  who  was  still  staying 
in  East  Westland,  and  pressed  close  to  Lucinda. 

"How  are  you?"  she  said. 

"Well  enough;  why  shouldn't  I  be?"  retorted 
Lucinda. 

It  was  impossible  to  tell  from  her  manner  whether 
she  was  grateful  for,  or  resented,  friendly  advances. 
She  held  her  head  very  high.  There  was  a  stiff, 
jetted  ornament  on  her  new  bonnet,  and  it  stood  up 
like  a  crest.  She  shot  a  suspicious  glance  at  Sylvia. 
Lucinda  in  those  days  entertained  that  suspicion  of 
suspicion  which  poisons  the  very  soul. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  shouldn't  be,"  replied 
99 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Sylvia.  She  herself  cast  an  angry  glance  at  the  peo 
ple  around  them,  and  that  angry  glance  was  like 
honey  to  Lucinda.  "You  were  a  fool  to  give  up  your 
place  in  the  choir,"  said  Sylvia,  still  with  that  angry, 
wandering  gaze.  "I'd  sung.  I'd  shown  'em;  and 
I'd  sung  out  of  tune  if  I'd  wanted  to." 

"You  don't  know  what  it  was  like  last  Sunday," 
said  Lucinda  then.  She  did  not  speak  complaining- 
ly  or  piteously.  There  was  proud  strength  in  her 
voice,  but  it  was  emphatic. 

"I  guess  I  do  know,"  said  Sylvia.  "I  saw  every 
body  craning  their  necks,  and  all  them  strangers. 
You've  got  a  lot  of  strangers  at  the  hotel,  haven't 
you,  Lucinda?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lucinda,  and  there  was  an  echo  in  her 
monosyllable  like  an  expletive. 

Sylvia  nodded  sympathizingly.  "Some  of  them 
write  for  the  papers,  I  suppose?"  said  she. 

"Some  of  them.  I  know  it's  my  bread-and-butter 
to  have  them,  but  I  never  saw  such  a  parcel  of  folks. 
Talk  about  eyes  in  the  backs  of  heads,  they're  all  eyes 
and  all  ears.  Sometimes  I  think  they  ain't  nothing 
except  eyes  and  ears  and  tongue.  But  there's  a  lot 
besides  who  like  to  think  maybe  they're  eating  poison. 
I  know  I'm  watched  every  time  I  stir  up  a  mite  of 
cake,  but  I  stir  away." 

"You  must  have  your  hands  full." 

"Yes;  I  had  to  get  Abby  Smith  to  come  in  and 
help." 

"She  ain't  good  for  much." 

"No,  she  ain't.  She's  thinkin'  all  the  time  of  how 
she  looks,  instead  of  what  she's  doing.  She  waits 
on  table,  though,  and  helps  wash  dishes.  She  gen- 

100 


THE    SHOULDERS  X3-Ei ATLAS 

erally  forgets  to  pass  the  vegetables  till  the  meat  is 
all  et  up,  and  they're  lucky  if  they  get  any  butter; 
but  I  can't  help  it.  They  only  pay  five  dollars  a 
week,  and  get  a  lot  of  enjoyment  out  of  watching  me 
and  Hannah,  and  they  can't  expect  everything." 

The  two  women  walked  along  the  country  road. 
There  were  many  other  people  besides  the  church- 
going  throng  in  their  Sunday  best,  but  they  seemed 
isolated,  although  closely  watched.  Presently,  how 
ever,  a  young  man,  well  dressed  in  light  gray,  with  a 
white  waistcoat,  approached  them. 

"Why,  good-day,  Miss  Hart!"  he  said,  raising  his 
hat. 

Lucinda  nodded  stiffly  and  walked  on.  She  did 
not  speak  to  him,  but  to  Sylvia.  "He  is  staying  at 
the  hotel.  He  writes  for  a  New  York  paper,"  she 
informed  Sylvia,  distinctly. 

The  young  man  laughed.  "And  Miss  Hart  is 
going  to  write  for  it,  too,"  he  said,  pleasantly  and  in 
sinuatingly.  "She  is  going  to  write  an  article  upon 
how  it  feels  to  be  suspected  of  a  crime  when  one  is 
innocent,  and  it  will  be  the  leading  feature  in  next 
Sunday's  paper.  She  is  to  have  her  picture  appear 
with  it,  too,  and  photographs  of  her  famous  hotel 
and  the  room  in  which  the  murder  was  said  to  have 
been  committed,  aren't  you,  Miss  Hart?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Lucinda,  with  stolidity. 

Sylvia  stared  with  amazement.  "Why,  Lucinda!" 
she  gasped. 

"When  I  find  out  folks  won't  take  no,  I  give  'em 
yes,"  said  Lucinda,  grimly. 

"I  knew  I  could  finally  persuade  Miss  Hart,"  said 
the  young  man,  affably.  He  was  really  very  much  of 

101 


THE  SHOULDERS   OF   ATLAS 


a  gentleman.  He  touched  his  hat,  striking  into  a 
pleasant  by-path  across  a  field  to  a  wood  beyond. 

"He's  crazy  over  the  country,"  remarked  Lucinda; 
and  then  she  was  accosted  again,  by  another  gentle 
man.  This  time  he  was  older  and  stouter,  and  some 
what  tired  in  his  aspect,  but  every  whit  as  genially 
persuasive. 

"He  writes  for  a  New  York  paper,"  said  Lucinda 
to  Sylvia,  in  exactly  the  same  tone  which  she  had 
used  previously.  ' '  He  wants  me  to  write  a  piece  for 
his  paper  on  my  first  twenty-four  hours  under  sus 
picion  of  crime." 

"And  you  are  going  to  write  it,  aren't  you,  Miss 
Hart?"  asked  the  gentleman. 

"Yes,"  replied  Lucinda,  with  alacrity. 

This  time  the  gentleman  looked  a  trifle  suspicious. 
He  pressed  his  inquiry.  "Can  you  let  us  have  the 
copy  by  Wednesday?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Lucinda.  Her  "yes"  had  the  effect 
of  a  snap. 

The  gentleman  talked  a  little  more  at  length  with 
regard  to  his  article,  and  Lucinda  never  failed  with 
her  ready  "yes." 

They  were  almost  at  the  turn  of  the  road,  where 
Sylvia  would  leave  Lucinda,  when  a  woman  appeared. 
She  was  young,  but  she  looked  old,  and  her  expres 
sion  was  one  of  spiritual  hunger. 

"This  lady  writes  for  a  Boston  paper,"  said  Lu 
cinda.  "She  came  yesterday.  She  wants  me  to 
write  a  piece  for  her  paper  upon  women's  unfairness 
to  women." 

"Based  upon  the  late  unfortunate  occurrence  at 
Miss  Hart's  hotel,"  said  the  woman, 

102 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Yes,"  said  Lucinda,  "of  course;  everything  is 
based  on  that.  She  wants  me  to  write  a  piece  upon 
how  ready  women  are  to  accuse  other  women  of  doing 
things  they  didn't  do." 

"And  you  are  going  to  write  it?"  said  the  woman, 
eagerly. 

"Yes,"  said  Lucinda. 

"Oh,  thank  you!  you  are  a  perfect  dear,"  said  the 
woman.  "I  am  so  much  pleased,  and  so  will  Mr. 
Evans  be  when  he  hears  the  news.  Now  I  must  ask 
you  to  excuse  me  if  I  hurry  past,  for  I  ought  to  wire 
him  at  once.  I  can  get  back  to  Boston  to-night." 

The  woman  had  left  them,  with  a  swish  of  a  frilled 
silk  petticoat  under  a  tailored  skirt,  when  Sylvia 
looked  at  Lucinda.  "You  ain't  goin'  to?"  said  she. 

"No." 

"But  you  said  so." 

"You'd  say  anything  to  get  rid  of  them.  I've  said 
no  till  I  found  out  they  wouldn't  take  it,  so  then  I 
began  to  say  yes.  I  guess  I've  said  yes,  in  all,  to 
about  seventeen." 

"And  you  don't  mean  to  write  a  thing?" 

"I  guess  I  ain't  going  to  begin  writing  for  the 
papers  at  my  time  of  life." 

"But  what  will  they  do?" 

"They  won't  get  the  pieces." 

"Can't  they  sue  you,  or  anything?" 

"Let  them  sue  if  they  want  to.  After  what  I've 
been  through  lately  I  guess  I  sha'n't  mind  that." 

"And  you  are  telling  every  one  of  them  you'll 
write  a  piece?" 

"Of  course  I  am.  It's  the  only  thing  they'll  let 
me  tell  them.  I  want  to  get  rid  of  them  somehow." 

103 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Sylvia  looked  at  Lucinda  anxiously.  "Is  it  true 
that  Albion  Bennet  has  left?"  she  said. 

"Yes;  he  was  afraid  of  getting  poisoned.  Mrs. 
Jim  Jones  has  taken  him.  I  reckon  I  sha'n't  have 
many  steady  boarders  after  this  has  quieted  down." 

"But  how  are  you  going  to  get  along,  Lucinda?" 

"  I  shall  get  along.  Everybody  gets  along.  What's 
heaped  on  you  you  have  to  get  along  with.  I  own 
the  hotel,  and  I  shall  keep  more  hens  and  raise  more 
garden  truck,  and  let  Hannah  go  if  I  can't  pay  her. 
I  shall  have  some  business,  enough  to  keep  me  alive, 
I  guess." 

"Is  it  true  that  Amos  Quimby  has  jilted  Hannah 
on  account  of — ?" 

"Guess  so.     He  hasn't  been  near  her  since." 

"Ain't  it  a  shame?" 

"Hannah's  got  to  live  with  what's  heaped  on  her 
shoulders,  too,"  said  Lucinda.  "Folks  had  ought 
to  be  thankful  when  the  loads  come  from  other 
people's  hands,  instead  of  their  own,  and  make  the 
best  of  it.  Hannah  has  got  a  good  appetite.  It 
ain't  going  to  kill  her.  She  can  go  away  from  East 
Westland  by-and-by  if  she  wants  to,  and  get  another 
beau.  Folks  didn't  suspect  her  much,  anyway.  I've 
got  the  brunt  of  it." 

"Lucinda,"  said  Sylvia,  earnestly.  "Folks  can't 
really  believe  you'd  go  and  do  such  a  thing." 

"It's  like  flies  after  molasses,"  said  Lucinda.  "I 
never  felt  I  was  so  sweet  before  in  my  life." 

"What  can  they  think  you'd  go  and  poison  a  good, 
steady  boarder  like  that  for?" 

"She  paid  a  dollar  a  day,"  said  Lucinda. 

"I  know  she  did." 

104 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"And  I  liked  her,"  said  Lucinda.  "I  know  lots 
of  folks  didn't,  but  I  did.  I  know  what  folks  said, 
and  I'll  own  I  found  things  in  her  room,  but  I  don't 
care  what  folks  do  to  their  outsides  as  long  as  their 
insides  are  right.  Miss  Farrel  was  a  real  good  wom 
an,  and  she  had  a  kind  of  hard  time,  too." 

"Why,  I  thought  she  had  a  real  good  place  in  the 
high-school;  and  teachers  earn  their  money  dreadful 
easy." 

"It  wasn't  that." 

"What  was  it?" 

Lucinda  hesitated.  "Well,"  she  said,  finally,  "it 
can't  do  her  any  harm,  now  she's  dead  and  gone,  and 
I  don't  know  as  it  was  anything  against  her,  anyway. 
She  just  set  her  eyes  by  your  boarder." 

"Not  Mr.  Allen?  You  don't  mean  Mr.  Allen,  Lu 
cinda?" 

"What  other  boarder  have  you  had?  I've  known 
about  it  for  a  long  time.  Hannah  and  me  both  have 
known,  but  we  never  opened  our  lips,  and  I  don't 
want  it  to  go  any  further  now." 

"How  did  you  find  out?" 

"By  keeping  my  eyes  and  ears  open.  How  does 
anybody  find  out  anything?" 

"I  don't  believe  Mr.  Allen  ever  once  thought  of 
her,"  said  Sylvia,  and  there  was  resentment  in  her 
voice. 

"Of  course  he  didn't.  Maybe  he'll  take  a  shine  to 
that  girl  you've  got  with  you  now." 

"Neither  one  of  them  has  even  thought  of  such  a 
thing,"  declared  Sylvia,  and  her  voice  was  almost 
violent. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  Lucinda  said,  indifferently, 
s  105 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  have  had  too  much  to  look  out  for  of  my  own 
affairs  since  the  girl  came  to  know  anything  about 
that.  I  only  thought  of  their  being  in  the  same 
house.  I  always  had  sort  of  an  idea  myself  that  may 
be  Lucy  Ay  res  would  be  the  one." 

"I  hadn't,"  said  Sylvia.  "Not  but  she — well,  she 
looked  real  sick  to-day.  She  didn't  look  fit  to  stand 
up  there  and  sing.  I  should  think  her  mother  would 
be  worried  about  her.  And  she  don't  sing  half  as 
well  as  you  do." 

"  Yes,  she  does,"  replied  Lucinda.  ' '  She  sings  enough 
sight  better  than  I  do." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  much  about  music,"  admitted 
Sylvia.  "I  can't  tell  if  anybody  gets  off  the  key." 

"1  can,"  said  Lucinda,  firmly.  "She  sings  enough 
sight  better  than  I  can,  but  I  sang  plenty  well  enough 
for  them,  and  if  I  hadn't  been  so  mad  at  the  way 
I've  been  'treated  I'd  kept  on.  Now  they  can  get 
on  without  me.  Lucy  Ayres  does  look  miserable. 
There's  consumption  in  her  family,  too.  Well,  it's 
good  for  her  lungs  to  sing,  if  she  don't  overdo  it. 
Good-bye,  Sylvia." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Sylvia.  She  hesitated  a  moment, 
then  she  said:  "Don't  you  mind,  Lucinda.  Henry 
and  I  think  just  the  same  of  you  as  we've  always 
thought,  and  there's  a  good  many  besides  us.  You 
haven't  any  call  to  feel  bad." 

"I  don't  feel  bad,"  said  Lucinda.  "I've  got  spunk 
enough  and  grit  enough  to  bear  any  load  that  I  'ain't 
heaped  on  my  own  shoulders,  and  the  Lord  knows 
I  'ain't  heaped  this.  Don't  you  worry  about  me, 
Sylvia.  Good-bye." 

Lucinda  went  her  way.  She  held  her  nice  black 
106 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

skirt  high,  but  her  plodding  feet  raised  quite  a  cloud 
of  dust.  Her  shoulders  were  thrown  back,  her  head 
was  very  erect,  the  jetted  ornament  on  her  bonnet 
shone  like  a  warrior's  crest.  She  stepped  evenly  out 
of  sight,  as  evenly  as  if  she  had  been  a  soldier  walking 
in  line  and  saying  to  himself,  ''Left,  right;  left,  right." 


CHAPTER  X 

WHEN  Sylvia  reached  home  she  found  Rose 
Fletcher  and  Horace  Allen  sitting  on  the  bench  under 
the  oak-trees  of  the  grove  north  of  the  house.  She 
marched  out  there  and  stood  before  them,  holding  her 
fringed  parasol  in  such  a  way  that  it  made  a  concave 
frame  for  her  stern,  elderly  face  and  thin  shoulders. 
"Rose,"  said  she,  "you  had  better  go  into  the  house 
and  lay  down  till  dinner-time.  You  have  been  walk 
ing  in  the  sun,  and  it  is  warm,  and  you  look  tired." 

She  spoke  at  once  affectionately  and  severely.  It 
seemed  almost  inconceivable  that  this  elderly  coun 
try  woman  could  speak  in  such  wise  to  the  city-bred 
girl  in  her  fashionable  attire,  with  her  air  of  self-pos 
session. 

But  the  girl  looked  up  at  her  as  if  she  loved  her, 
and  answered,  in  just  the  way  in  which  Sylvia  liked 
her  to  answer,  with  a  sort  of  pretty,  childish  petulance, 
defiant,  yet  yielding.  "I  am  not  in  the  least  tired," 
said  she,  "and  it  did  not  hurt  me  to  walk  in  the  sun, 
and  I  like  to  sit  here  under  the  trees." 

Rose  was  charming  that  morning.  Her  thick,  fair 
hair  was  rolled  back  from  her  temples,  which  had  at 
once  something  noble  and  childlike  about  them.  Her 
face  was  as  clear  as  a  cameo.  She  was  dressed  in 
mourning  for  her  aunt,  but  her  black  robe  was  thin 

1 08 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

and  the  fine  curves  of  her  shoulders  and  arms  were 
revealed,  and  the  black  lace  of  her  wide  hat  threw 
her  fairness  into  relief  like  a  setting  of  onyx. 

"You  had  better  go  into  the  house,"  said  Sylvia, 
her  eyes  stern,  her  mouth  smiling.  A  maternal  in 
stinct  which  dominated  her  had  awakened  suddenly 
in  the  older  woman's  heart.  She  adored  the  girl 
to  such  an  extent  that  the  adoration  fairly  pained  her. 
Rose  herself  might  easily  have  found  this  exacting 
affection,  this  constant  watchfulness,  irritating,  but 
she  found  it  sweet.  She  could  scarcely  remember  her 
mother,  but  the  memory  had  always  been  as  one  of 
lost  love.  Now  she  seemed  to  have  found  it  again. 
She  fairly  coquetted  with  this  older  woman  who 
loved  her,  and  whom  she  loved,  with  that  charming 
coquettishness  sometimes  seen  in  a  daughter  towards 
her  mother.  She  presumed  upon  this  affection  which 
she  felt  to  be  so  staple.  She  affronted  Sylvia  with  a 
delicious  sense  of  her  own  power  over  her  and  an 
underlying  affection,  which  had  in  it  the  protective 
instinct  of  youth  which  dovetailed  with  the  protective 
instinct  of  age. 

It  had  been  planned  that  she  was  to  return  to 
New  York  immediately  after  Miss  Parrel's  funeral. 
In  fact,  her  ticket  had  been  bought  and  her  trunk 
packed,  when  a  telegram  arrived  rather  late  at  night. 
Rose  had  gone  to  bed  when  Sylvia  brought  it  up 
to  her  room.  "Don't  be  scared,"  she  said,  holding 
the  yellow  envelope  behind  her.  Rose  stared  at 
her,  round  -  eyed,  from  her  white  nest.  She  turned 
pale. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said,  tremulously. 

"There's  no  need  for  you  to  go  and  think  anything 
109 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

has  happened  until  you  read  it,"  Sylvia  said.  "You 
must  be  calm." 

"Oh,  what  is  it?" 

"A  telegram,"  replied  Sylvia,  solemnly.  "You 
must  be  calm." 

Rose  laughed.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Wilton  and  Miss  Pamela 
are  forever  sending  telegrams,"  she  said.  "Very 
likely  it  is  only  to  say  somebody  will  meet  me  at  the 
Grand  Central." 

Sylvia  looked  at  the  girl  in  amazement,  as  she 
coolly  opened  and  read  the  telegram.  Rose's  face 
changed  expression.  She  regarded  the  yellow  paper 
thoughtfully  a  moment  before  she  spoke. 

"If  anything  has  happened,  you  must  be  calm," 
said  Sylvia,  looking  at  her  anxiously.  "Of  course 
you  have  lived  with  those  people  so  many  years  you 
have  learned  to  think  a  good  deal  of  them;  that  is 
only  natural;  but,  after  all,  they  ain't  your  own." 

Rose  laughed  again,  but  in  rather  a  perplexed  fash 
ion.  "Nothing  has  happened,"  she  said — "at  least, 
nothing  that  you  are  thinking  of — but — " 

"But  what?" 

"Why,  Mrs.  Wilton  and  Miss  Pamela  are  going  to 
sail  for  Genoa  to-morrow,  and  that  puts  an  end  to  my 
going  to  New  York  to  them." 

A  great  brightness  overspread  Sylvia's  face.  "Well, 
you  ain't  left  stranded,"  she  said.  "You've  got  your 
home  here/' 

Rose  looked  gratefully  at  her.  "You  do  make 
me  feel  as  if  I  had,  and  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
do  if  you  did  not,  but " — she  frowned  perplexedly — 
"all  the  same,  one  would  not  have  thought  they 
would  have  gone  off  in  this  way  without  giving  me 

no 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

a  moment's  notice,"  she  said,  in  rather  an  injured 
fashion,  "after  I  have  lived  with  them  so  long.  I 
never  thought  they  really  cared  much  about  me. 
Mrs.  Wilton  and  Miss  Pamela  look  too  hard  at  their 
own  tracks  to  get  much  interest  in  anybody  or  any 
thing  outside;  but  starting  off  in  this  way!  They 
might  have  thought  that  I  would  like  to  go — at  least 
they  might  have  told  me." 

Suddenly  her  frown  of  perplexity  cleared  away. 
"I  know  what  has  happened,"  she  said,  with  a  nod  to 
Sylvia.  "I  know  exactly  what  has  happened." 

"What?" 

"Mrs.  Wilton's  and  Miss  Pamela's  aunt  Susan  has 
died,  and  they've  got  the  money.  They  have  been 
waiting  for  it  ever  since  I  have  been  with  them. 
Their  aunt  was  over  ninety,  and  it  did  begin  to  seem 
as  if  she  would  never  die." 

"Was  she  very  rich?" 

"Oh,  very;  millions;  and  she  never  gave  a  cent  to 
Mrs.  Wilton  and  Miss  Pamela.  She  has  died,  and 
they  have  just  made  up  their  minds  to  go  away. 
They  have  always  said  they  should  live  abroad  as 
soon  as  they  were  able."  Rose  looked  a  little  troubled 
for  a  moment,  then  she  laughed.  "They  kept  me  as 
long  as  they  needed  me,"  said  she,  with  a  pleasant 
cynicism,  "and  I  don't  know  but  I  had  lived  with 
them  long  enough  to  suit  myself.  Mrs.  Wilton  and 
Miss  Pamela  were  always  nice  to  me,  but  sometimes — 
well,  sometimes  I  felt  so  outside  them  that  I  was 
awfully  lonesome.  And  Mrs.  Wilton  always  did  just 
what  you  knew  she  would,  and  so  did  Miss  Pamela, 
and  it  was  a  little  like  living  with  machines  that  were 
wound  up  to  do  the  right  thing  by  you,  but  didn't  do 

in 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

it  of  their  own  accord.  Now  they  have  run  down, 
just  like  machines.  I  know  as  well  as  I  want  to  that 
Aunt  Susan  has  died  and  left  them  her  money.  I 
shall  get  a  letter  to-morrow  telling  me  about  it.  I 
think  myself  that  Mrs.  Wilton  and  Miss  Pamela  will 
get  married  now.  They  never  gave  up,  you  know. 
Mrs.  Wilton's  husband  died  ages  ago,  and  she  was  as 
much  of  an  old  maid  as  Miss  Pamela,  and  neither  of 
them  would  give  up.  They  will  be  countesses  or 
duchesses  or  something  within  a  year." 

Rose  laughed,  and  Sylvia  beamed  upon  her.  "If 
you  feel  that  you  can  stay  here,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"7/1  feel  that  I  can,"  said  Rose.  She  stretched 
out  her  slender  arms,  from  which  the  lace-trimmed 
sleeves  of  her  night-gown  fell  away  to  the  shoulder, 
and  Sylvia  let  them  close  around  her  thin  neck  and 
felt  the  young  cheek  upon  her  own  with  a  rapture 
like  a  lover's. 

"Those  folks  she  lived  with  in  New  York  are  going 
to  Europe  to-morrow,"  she  told  Henry,  when  she  was 
down-stairs  again,  "and  they  have  treated  that  poor 
child  mean.  They  have  never  told  her  a  word  about 
it  until  now.  She  says  she  thinks  their  rich  aunt  has 
died  and  left  them  her  money,  and  they  have  just 
cleared  out  and  left  her." 

"Well,  she  can  stay  with  us  as  long  as  she  is  con 
tented,"  said  Henry. 

"I  rather  guess  she  can,"  said  Sylvia. 

Henry  regarded  her  with  the  wondering  expression 
which  was  often  on  his  face  nowadays.  He  had 
glimpses  of  the  maternal  depths  of  his  wife's  heart, 
which,  while  not  understanding,  he  acquiesced  in;  but 
there  was  something  else  which  baffled  him. 

112 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

But  now  for  Sylvia  came  a  time  of  contentment, 
apparently  beyond  anything  which  had  ever  come 
into  her  life.  She  fairly  revelled  in  her  possession  of 
Rose,  and  the  girl  in  her  turn  seemed  to  reciprocate. 
Although  the  life  in  East  Westland  was  utterly  at 
variance  with  the  life  she  had  known,  she  settled  down 
in  it,  of  course  with  sundry  hitches  of  adjustment.  For 
instance,  she  could  not  rid  herself  at  first  of  the  convic 
tion  that  she  must  have,  as  she  had  always  had,  a  maid. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  go  to  work,"  she  said  to 
Sylvia  one  day.  "Of  course  I  must  have  a  maid, 
but  I  wonder  if  I  had  better  advertise  or  write  some 
of  my  friends.  Betty  Morrison  may  know  of  some 
one,  or  Sally  Maclean.  Betty  and  Sally  always  seem 
to  be  able  to  find  ways  out  of  difficulties.  Perhaps 
I  had  better  write  them.  Maybe  it  would  be  safer 
than  to  advertise." 

Sylvia  and  Rose  were  sitting  together  in  the  south 
room  that  afternoon.  Sylvia  looked  pathetically  and 
wistfully  at  the  girl.  "What  do  you  want  a  maid 
for?"  she  asked,  timidly. 

Rose  stared.  "What  for?  Why,  what  I  always 
want  a  maid  for:  to  attend  to  my  wardrobe  and  assist 
me  in  dressing,  to  brush  my  hair,  and — everything," 
ended  Rose,  comprehensively. 

Sylvia  continued  to  regard  her  with  that  wistful, 
pathetic  look. 

"I  can  sew  braid  on  your  dresses,  and  darn  your 
stockings,  and  button  up  your  dresses,  and  brush  your 
hair,  too,  just  as  well  as  anybody,"  she  said. 

Rose  ran  over  to  her  and  went  down  on  her  knees 
beside  her.  "You  dear,"  she  said,  "as  if  you  didn't 
have  enough  to  do  now!" 

"3 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"This  is  a  very  convenient  house  to  do  work  in," 
said  Sylvia,  "and  now  I  have  my  washing  and  ironing 
done,  I've  got  time  on  my  hands.  I  like  to  sew  braid 
on  and  darn  stockings,  and  always  did,  and  it's  noth 
ing  at  all  to  fasten  up  your  waists  in  the  back;  you 
know  that." 

"You  dear,"  said  Rose  again.  She  nestled  her 
fair  head  against  Sylvia's  slim  knees.  Sylvia  thrilled. 
She  touched  the  soft  puff  of  blond  hair  timidly  with 
her  bony  ringers.  "But  I  have  always  had  a  maid," 
Rose  persisted,  in  a  somewhat  puzzled  way.  Rose 
could  hardly  conceive  of  continued  existence  without 
a  maid.  She  had  managed  very  well  for  a  few  days, 
but  to  contemplate  life  without  one  altogether  seemed 
like  contemplating  the  possibility  of  living  without 
a  comb  and  hair-brush.  Sylvia's  face  took  on  a 
crafty  expression. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "if  you  must  have  a  maid,  write 
your  friends,  and  I  will  have  another  leaf  put  in  the 
dining-table." 

Rose  raised  her  head  and  stared  at  her.  "Another 
leaf  in  the  dining-table?"  said  she,  vaguely. 

"Yes.  I  don't  think  there's  room  for  more  than 
four  without  another  leaf." 

"But — my  maid  would  not  eat  at  the  table  with  us." 

"Would  she  be  willing  to  eat  in  the  kitchen — cold 
victuals — after  we  had  finished?" 

Rose  looked  exceedingly  puzzled.  "No,  she  would 
not;  at  least, no  maid  I  ever  had  would  have,"  she 
admitted. 

"Where  is  she  going  to  eat,  then?  Would  she  wait 
till  after  we  were  through  and  eat  in  the  dining-room  ?" 

"I  don't  believe  she  would  like  that,  either." 
114 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

" Where  is  she  going  to  eat?"  demanded  Sylvia, 
inexorably. 

Rose  gazed  at  her. 

"She  could  have  a  little  table  in  here,  or  in  the 
parlor,"  said  Sylvia. 

Rose  laughed.  "Oh,  that  would  never  do!"  said 
she.  "Of  course  there  was  a  servants'  dining-room 
at  Mrs.  Wilton's,  and  there  always  is  in  a  hotel,  you 
know.  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"She  has  got  to  eat  somewhere.  Where  is  she  going 
to  eat?"  asked  Sylvia,  pressing  the  question. 

Rose  got  up  and  kissed  her.  "Oh,  well,  I  won't 
bother  about  it  for  a  while,  anyway,"  said  she.  "Now 
I  think  of  it,  Betty  is  sure  to  be  off  to  Newport  by 
now,  and  Sally  must  be  about  to  sail  for  Paris  to  buy 
her  trousseau.  She  is  going  to  marry  Dicky  van 
Snyde  in  the  autumn  (whatever  she  sees  in  him) !  So 
I  doubt  if  either  of  them  could  do  anything  about  a 
maid  for  me.  I  won't  bother  at  all  now,  but  I  am 
not  going  to  let  you  wait  upon  me.  I  am  going  to 
help  you." 

Sylvia  took  one  of  Rose's  little  hands  and  looked 
at  it.  "I  guess  you  can't  do  much  with  hands  like 
yours,"  said  she,  admiringly,  and  with  an  odd  tone 
of  resentment,  as  if  she  were  indignant  at  the  mere 
suggestion  of  life's  demanding  service  from  this  dainty 
little  creature,  for  whom  she  was  ready  to  immolate 
herself. 

However,  Rose  had  in  her  a  vein  of  persistency. 
She  insisted  upon  wiping  the  dishes  and  dusting. 
She  did  it  all  very  badly,  but  Sylvia  found  the  oddest 
amusement  in  chiding  her  for  her  mistakes  and  in 
setting  them  right  herself.  She  would  not  have  been 

"5 


THE    SHOULDERS   OF   ATLAS 

nearly  as  well  pleased  had  Rose  been  handy  about 
the  house.  One  evening  Henry  caught  Sylvia  wiping 
over  all  the  dishes  which  Rose  had  wiped,  and  which 
were  still  damp,  the  while  she  was  fairly  doubled  up 
with  suppressed  mirth. 

"What  in  creation  ails  you,  Sylvia?"  asked  Henry. 

She  extended  towards  him  a  plate  on  which  the 
water  stood  in  drops.  "Just  see  this  plate  that  dear 
child  thinks  she  has  wiped,"  she  chuckled. 

"You  women  do  beat  the  Dutch,"  said  Henry. 

However,  Rose  did  prove  herself  an  adept  in  one 
respect.  She  had  never  sewed  much,  but  she  had 
an  inventive  genius  in  dress,  and,  when  she  once  took 
up  her  needle,  used  it  deftly. 

When  Sylvia  confided  to  her  her  aspiration  con 
cerning  the  pink  silk  which  she  had  found  among 
Abrahama's  possessions,  Rose  did  not  laugh  at  all, 
but  she  looked  at  her  thoughtfully. 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  suitable  if  I  had  it 
made  with  some  black  lace?"  asked  Sylvia,  wistfully. 
"Henry  thinks  it  is  too  young  for  me,  but — " 

"Not  black,"  Rose  said,  decisively.  The  two  were 
up  in  the  attic  beside  the  old  chest  of  finery.  Rose 
took  out  an  old  barege  of  an  ashes-of-roses  color. 
She  laid  a  fold  of  the  barege  over  the  pink  silk,  then 
she  looked  radiantly  at  Sylvia. 

"It  will  make  a  perfectly  lovely  gown  for  you  if 
you  use  the  pink  for  a  petticoat,"  said  she,  "and  have 
the  gown  made  of  this  delicious  old  stuff." 

"The  pink  for  a  petticoat?"  gasped  Sylvia. 

"It  is  the  only  way,"  said  Rose;  "and  you  must 
have  gray  gloves,  and  a  bonnet  of  gray  with  just  one 
pale-pink  rose  in  it.  Don't  you  understand?  Then 

116 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

you  will  harmonize  with  your  dress.  Your  hair  is 
gray,  and  there  is  pink  in  your  cheeks.  You  will 
be  lovely  in  it.  There  must  be  a  very  high  collar 
and  some  soft  creamy  lace,  because  there  is  still  some 
yellow  left  in  your  hair." 

Rose  nodded  delightedly  at  Sylvia,  and  the  dress 
maker  came  and  made  the  gown  according  to  Rose's 
directions.  Sylvia  wore  it  for  the  first  time  when 
she  walked  from  church  with  Lucinda  Hart  and  found 
Rose  and  Horace  sitting  in  the  grove.  After  Rose 
had  replied  to  Sylvia's  advice  that  she  should  go  into 
the  house,  she  looked  at  her  with  the  pride  of  pro 
prietorship.  "Doesn't  she  look  simply  lovely?"  she 
asked  Horace. 

"She  certainly  does,"  replied  the  young  man.  He 
really  gazed  admiringly  at  the  older  woman,  who 
made,  under  the  glimmering  shadows  of  the  oaks,  a 
charming  nocturne  of  elderly  womanhood.  The  faint 
pink  on  her  cheeks  seemed  enhanced  by  the  pink  seen 
dimly  through  the  ashen  shimmer  of  her  gown;  the 
creamy  lace  harmonized  with  her  yellow-gray  hair. 
She  was  in  her  own  way  as  charming  as  Rose  in  hers. 

Sylvia  actually  blushed,  and  hung  her  head  with 
a  graceful  sidewise  motion.  "I'm  too  old  to  be  made 
a  fool  of,"  said  she,  "and  I've  got  a  good  looking- 
glass."  But  she  smiled  the  smile  of  a  pretty  woman 
conscious  of  her  own  prettiness.  Then  all  three 
laughed,  although  Horace  but  a  moment  before  had 
looked  very  grave,  and  now  he  was  quite  white. 
Sylvia  noticed  it.  "Why,  what  ails  you,  Mr.  Allen?" 
she  said.  "Don't  you  feel  well ?" 

"Perfectly  well." 

"You  look  pale." 

117 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"It  is  the  shadow  of  the  oaks." 

Sylvia  noticed  a  dainty  little  white  box  in  Rose's 
lap.  "What  is  that?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  a  box  of  candy  that  dear,  sweet  Lucy  Ayres 
who  sang  to-day  made  her  own  self  and  gave  to  me," 
replied  Rose.  "She  came  up  to  me  on  the  way  home 
from  church  and  slipped  it  into  my  hand,  and  I  hardly 
know  her  at  all.  I  do  think  it  is  too  dear  of  her  for 
anything.  She  is  such  a  lovely  girl,  and  her  voice  is 
beautiful."  Rose  looked  defiantly  at  Horace.  "Mr. 
Allen  has  been  trying  to  make  me  promise  not  to  eat 
this  nice  candy,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  think  candy  is  good  for  anybody,  and 
girls  eat  altogether  too  much  of  it,"  said  Horace,  with 
a  strange  fervor  which  the  occasion  hardly  seemed  to 
warrant. 

"Wouldn't  I  know  he  was  a  school-teacher  when  I 
heard  him  speak  like  that,  even  if  nobody  had  ever 
told  me?"  said  Rose.  "Of  course  I  am  going  to  eat 
this  candy  that  dear  Lucy  made  her  own  self  and 
gave  me.  I  should  be  very  ungrateful  not  to,  and  I 
love  candy,  too." 

"  I  will  send  for  some  to  Boston  to-morrow,"  cried 
Horace,  eagerly. 

Rose  regarded  him  with  amazement.  "Why,  Mr. 
Allen,  you  just  said  you  did  not  approve  of  candy  at 
all,  and  here  you  are  proposing  to  send  for  some  for 
me,"  she  said,  "when  I  have  this  nice  home-made 
candy,  a  great  deal  purer,  because  one  knows  exactly 
what  is  in  it,  and  you  say  I  must  not  eat  this." 

Rose  took  up  a  sugared  almond  daintily  and  put 
it  to  her  lips,  but  Horace  was  too  quick  for  her.  Be 
fore  she  knew  what  he  was  about  he  had  dashed  it 

nS 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

from  her  hand,  and  in  the  tumult  the  whole  box  of 
candy  was  scattered.  Horace  trampled  on  it,  it  was 
impossible  to  say  whether  purposely  or  accidentally, 
in  the  struggle. 

Both  Rose  and  Sylvia  regarded  him  with  amaze 
ment,  mixed  with  indignation. 

"Why,  Mr.  Allen!"  said  Rose.  Then  she  added, 
haughtily:  "Mr.  Allen,  you  take  altogether  too  much 
upon  yourself.  You  have  spoiled  my  candy,  and 
you  forget  that  you  have  not  the  least  right  to  dic 
tate  to  me  what  I  shall  or  shall  not  eat." 

Sylvia  also  turned  upon  Horace.  "Home-made 
candy  wouldn't  hurt  her,"  she  said.  Why,  Mr.  Allen, 
what  do  you  mean?" 

"Nothing.  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Horace.  Then 
he  walked  away  without  another  word,  and  entered 
the  house.  The  girl  and  the  woman  stood  looking 
at  each  other. 

"What  did  he  do  such  a  thing  for?"  asked  Rose. 

"Goodness  knows,"  said  Sylvia. 

Rose  was  quite  pale.  She  began  to  look  alarmed. 
"You  don't  suppose  he's  taken  suddenly  insane  or 
anything?"  said  she. 

"My  land!  no,"  said  Sylvia.  "Men  do  act  queer 
sometimes." 

"I  should  think  so,  if  this  is  a  sample  of  it,"  said 
Rose,  eying  the  trampled  candy.  "Why,  he  ground 
his  heel  into  it !  What  right  had  he  to  tell  me  I  should 
or  should  not  eat  it?"  she  said,  indignantly,  again. 

"None  at  all.  Men  are  queer.  Even  Mr.  Whit 
man  is  queer  sometimes." 

"  If  he  is  as  queer  as  that,  I  don't  see  how  you  have 
lived  with  him  so  long.  Did  he  ever  make  you  drop 

119 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

a  nice  box  of  candy  somebody  had  given  you,  and 
trample  on  it,  and  then  walk  off?" 

"No,  I  don't  know  as  he  ever  did;  but  men  do 
queer  things." 

"I  don't  like  Mr.  Allen  at  all,"  said  Rose,  walking 
beside  Sylvia  towards  the  house.  "Not  at  all.  I 
don't  like  him  as  well  as  Mr.  James  Duncan." 

Sylvia  looked  at  her  with  quick  alarm.  "The  man 
who  wrote  you  last  week?" 

"Yes,  and  wanted  to  know  if  there  was  a  hotel 
here  so  he  could  come." 

"I  thought — "  began  Sylvia. 

"Yes,  I  had  begun  the  letter,  telling  him  the  hotel 
wasn't  any  good,  because  I  knew  he  would  know 
what  that  meant — that  there  was  no  use  in  his  ask 
ing  me  to  marry  him  again,  because  I  never  would; 
but  now  I  think  I  shall  tell  him  the  hotel  is  not  so 
bad,  after  all,"  said  Rose. 

"But  you  don't  mean — " 

"I  don't  know  what  I  do  mean,"  said  Rose,  ner 
vously.  "Yes,  I  do  know  what  I  mean.  I  always 
know  what  I  mean,  but  I  don't  know  what  men  mean 
making  me  drop  candy  I  have  had  given  me,  and 
trampling  on  it,  and  men  don't  know  that  I  know 
what  I  mean."  Rose  was  almost  crying. 

"Go  up-stairs  and  lay  down  a  little  while  before 
dinner,"  said  Sylvia,  anxiously. 

"No,"  replied  Rose;  "I  am  going  to  help  you. 
Don't,  please,  think  I  am  crying  because  I  feel  badly. 
It  is  because  I  am  angry.  I  am  going  to  set  the  table." 

But  Rose  did  not  set  the  table.  She  forgot  all 
about  it  when  she  had  entered  the  south  room  and 
found  Henry  Whitman  sitting  there  with  the  Sunday 

120 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

paper.  She  sat  down  opposite  and  looked  at  him 
with  her  clear,  blue,  childlike  eyes.  She  had  come 
to  call  him  Uncle  Henry. 

"Uncle  Henry?"  said  she,  interrogatively,  and 
waited . 

Henry  looked  across  at  her  and  smiled  with  the 
somewhat  abashed  tenderness  which  he  always  felt 
for  this  girl,  whose  environment  had  been  so  very 
different  from  his  and  his  wife's.  "Well?"  he  said. 

"Uncle  Henry,  do  you  think  a  man  can  tell  another 
man's  reasons  for  doing  a  queer  thing  better  than  a 
woman  can?" 

"Perhaps." 

"I  almost  know  a  woman  could  tell  why  a  woman 
did  a  queer  thing,  better  than  a  man  could,"  said 
Rose,  reflectively.  She  hesitated  a  little. 

Henry  waited,  his  worn,  pleasant  face  staring  at 
her  over  a  vividly  colored  page  of  the  paper. 

"Suppose,"  said  Rose,  "another  woman  had  given 
Aunt  Sylvia  a  box  of  candy  which  she  had  made 
herself,  real  nice  candy,  and  suppose  the  woman  who 
had  given  it  to  her  was  lovely,  and  you  had  knocked  a 
piece  of  candy  from  Aunt  Sylvia's  mouth  just  as  she 
was  going  to  taste  it,  and  had  startled  her  so  you 
made  her  drop  the  whole  box,  and  then  set  your  heel 
hard  on  the  pieces;  what  would  you  have  done  it 
for?" 

The  girl's  face  wore  an  expression  of  the  keenest 
inquiry.  Henry  looked  at  her,  wrinkling  his  fore 
head.  "If  another  woman  had  given  Sylvia  a  box 
of  candy  she  had  made,  and  I  knocked  a  piece  from 
her  hand  just  as  she  was  going  to  taste  it,  and  made 
her  drop  the  whole  box,  and  had  trampled  all  the 
o  121 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

rest  of  the  candy  underfoot,  what  should  I  have  done 
it  for?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes." 

Henry  looked  at  her.  He  heard  a  door  shut  up 
stairs.  "I  shouldn't  have  done  it,"  he  said. 

"But  suppose  you  had  done  it?" 

"I  shouldn't  have." 

Rose  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "You  are  horrid, 
Uncle  Henry,"  she  said. 

"But  I  shouldn't  have  done  it,"  repeated  Henry. 
He  heard  Horace's  step  on  the  stair.  Rose  got  up 
and  ran  out  of  the  room  by  another  door  from  that 
which  Horace  entered.  Horace  sat  down  in  the  chair 
which  Rose  had  just  vacated.  He  looked  pale  and 
worried.  The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met.  Henry's 
eyes  asked  a  question.  Horace  answered  it. 

"I  am  in  such  a  devil  of  a  mess  as  never  man  was 
yet,  I  believe,"  he  said. 

Henry  nodded  gravely. 

"The  worst  of  it  is  I  can't  tell  a  living  mortal," 
Horace  said,  in  a  whisper.  "I  am  afraid  even  to 
think  it." 

At  dinner  Rose  sat  with  her  face  averted  from 
Horace.  She  never  spoke  once  to  him.  As  they 
rose  from  the  table  she  made  an  announcement.  ' '  I 
am  going  to  run  over  and  see  Lucy  Ayres,"  she  said. 
"I  am  going  to  tell  her  an  accident  happened  to  my 
candy,  and  maybe  she  will  give  me  some  more." 

Henry  saw  Horace's  face  change.  "Candy  is  not 
good  for  girls;  it  spoils  their  complexion.  I  have  just 
been  reading  about  it  in  the  Sunday  paper,"  said 
Henry.  Sylvia  unexpectedly  proved  his  ally.  Rose 
had  not  eaten  much  dinner,  although  it  had  been 

122 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

an  especially  nice  one,  and  she  felt  anxious  about 
her. 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  eat  candy  when  you 
have  so  little  appetite  for  good,  wholesome  meat  and 
vegetables,"  she  said. 

"I  want  to  see  Lucy,  too,"  said  Rose.  " I  am  going 
over  there.  It  is  a  lovely  afternoon.  I  have  nothing 
I  want  to  read  and  nothing  to  do.  I  am  going  over 
there." 

Henry's  eyes  questioned  Horace's,  which  said,  plain 
ly,  to  the  other  man,  "For  God's  sake,  don't  let  her 
go;  don't  let  her  go!" 

Rose  had  run  up-stairs  for  her  parasol.  Horace 
turned  away.  He  understood  that  Henry  would  help 
him.  "Don't  let  her  go  over  there  this  afternoon," 
said  Henry  to  Sylvia,  who  looked  at  him  in  the  blank 
est  amazement. 

"Why  not,  I'd  like  to  know?"  asked  Sylvia. 

"Don't  let  her  go,"  repeated  Henry. 

Sylvia  looked  suspiciously  from  one  man  to  the 
other.  The  only  solution  which  a  woman  could  put 
upon  such  a  request  immediately  occurred  to  her. 
She  said  to  herself,  "Hm!  Mr.  Allen  wants  Rose  to 
stay  at  home  so  he  can  see  her  himself,  and  Henry 
knows  it." 

She  stiffened  her  neck.  Down  deep  in  her  heart 
was  a  feeling  more  seldom  in  women's  hearts  than  in 
men's.  She  would  not  have  owned  that  she  did  not 
wish  to  part  with  this  new  darling  of  her  heart — 
who  had  awakened  within  it  emotions  of  whose 
strength  the  childless  woman  had  never  dreamed. 
There  was  also  another  reason,  which  she  would  not 
admit  even  to  herself.  Had  Rose  been,  indeed,  her 

123 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

daughter,  and  she  had  possessed  her  from  the  cradle 
to  womanhood,  she  would  probably  have  been  as 
other  mothers,  but  now  Rose  was  to  her  as  the 
infant  she  had  never  borne.  She  felt  the  intense 
jealousy  of  ownership  which  the  mother  feels  over 
the  baby  in  her  arms.  She  wished  to  snatch  Rose 
from  every  clasp  except  her  own. 

She  decided  at  once  that  it  was  easy  to  see  through 
the  plans  of  Horace  and  her  husband,  and  she  de 
termined  to  thwart  them.  "I  don't  see  why  she 
shouldn't  go,"  she  said.  "It  is  a  lovely  afternoon. 
The  walk  will  do  her  good.  Lucy  Ayres  is  a  real  nice 
girl,  and  of  course  Rose  wants  to  see  girls  of  her  own 
age  now  and  then." 

"It  is  Sunday,"  said  Henry.  He  felt  and  looked 
like  a  hypocrite  as  he  spoke,  but  the  distress  in 
Horace's  gaze  was  too  much  for  him. 

Sylvia  sniffed.  "Sunday,"  said  she.  "Good  land! 
what  has  come  over  you,  Henry  Whitman?  It  has 
been  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  get  you  to  go  to  meeting 
the  last  ten  years,  and  now  all  of  a  sudden  you  turn 
around  and  think  it's  wicked  for  a  young  girl  to  run 
in  and  see  another  young  girl  Sunday  afternoon." 
Sylvia  sniffed  again  very  distinctly,  and  then  Rose 
entered  the  room. 

Her  clear,  fair  face  looked  from  one  to  another  from 
under  her  black  hat.  "What  is  the  matter?"  she 
asked. 

Sylvia  patted  her  on  the  shoulder.  "Nothing  is 
the  matter,"  said  she.  "Run  along  and  have  a  good 
time,  but  you  had  better  be  home  by  five  o'clock. 
There  is  a  praise  meeting  to-night,  and  I  guess  we'll 
all  want  to  go,  and  I  am  going  to  have  supper  early." 

124 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

After  Rose  had  gone  and  Sylvia  had  left  the  room, 
the  two  men  looked  at  each  other.  Horace  was  ashy 
pale.  Henry's  face  showed  alarm  and  astonishment. 
"What  is  it?"  he  whispered. 

"Come  out  in  the  grove  and  have  a  smoke,"  said 
Horace,  with  a  look  towards  the  door  through  which 
Sylvia  had  gone. 

Henry  nodded.  He  gathered  up  his  pipe  and  to 
bacco  from  the  table,  and  the  two  men  sauntered  out 
of  the  house  into  the  grove.  But  even  there  not 
much  was  said.  Both  smoked  in  silence,  sitting  on 
the  bench,  before  Horace  opened  his  lips  in  response 
to  Henry's  inquiry. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,  and  I  don't  know  that  it 
is  anything,  and  that  is  the  worst  of  it,"  he  said, 
gloomily;  "and  I  can't  see  my  way  to  telling  any 
mortal  what  little  I  do  know  that  leads  me  to  fear 
that  it  is  something,  although  I  would  if  I  were  sure 
and  actually  knew  beyond  doubt  that  there  was — " 
He  stopped  abruptly  and  blew  a  ring  of  smoke  from 
his  cigar. 

"Something  is  queer  about  my  wife  lately,"  said 
Henry,  in  a  low  voice. 

"What?" 

"That's  just  it.  I  feel  something  as  you  do.  It 
may  be  nothing  at  all.  I  tell  you  what,  young  man, 
when  women  talk,  as  women  are  intended  by  an 
overruling  Providence  to  talk,  men  know  where  they 
are  at,  but  when  a  woman  doesn't  talk  men  know 
where  they  ain't." 

"In  my  case  there  has  been  so  much  talk  that  I 
seem  to  be  in  a  fog  of  it,  and  can't  see  a  blessed 
thing  sufficiently  straight  to  know  whether  it  is  big 

125 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

enough  to  bother  about  or  little  enough  to  let  alone ; 
but  I  can't  repeat  the  talk  — no  man  could,"  said 
Horace. 

"In  my  case  there  ain't  talk  enough,"  said  Henry. 
"I  ain't  in  a  fog;  I'm  in  pitch  darkness." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  two  men  sat  for  some  time  out  in  the  grove. 
It  was  very  pleasant  there.  The  air  was  unusually 
still,  and  only  the  tops  of  the  trees  whitened  occasion 
ally  in  a  light  puff  of  wind  like  a  sigh.  Now  and 
then  a  carriage  or  an  automobile  passed  on  the  road 
beyond,  but  not  many  of  them.  It  was  not  a  main 
thoroughfare.  The  calls  and  quick  carols  of  the 
birds,  punctuated  with  sharp  trills  of  insects,  were  al 
most  the  only  sounds  heard.  Now  and  then  Sylvia's 
face  glanced  at  them  from  a  house  window,  but  it 
was  quickly  withdrawn.  She  never  liked  men  to  be 
in  close  conclave  without  a  woman  to  superintend, 
yet  she  could  not  have  told  why.  She  had  a  hazy 
impression,  as  she  might  have  had  if  they  had  been 
children,  that  some  mischief  was  afoot. 

"Sitting  out  there  all  this  time,  and  smoking,  and 
never  seeming  to  speak  a  word,"  she  said  to  herself, 
as  she  returned  to  her  seat  beside  a  front  window  in 
the  south  room  and  took  up  her  book.  She  was 
reading  with  a  mild  and  patronizing  interest  a  book 
in  which  the  heroine  did  nothing  which  she  would 
possibly  have  done  under  given  circumstances,  and 
said  nothing  which  she  would  have  said,  and  was, 
moreover,  a  distinctly  different  personality  from  one 
chapter  to  another,  yet  the  whole  had  a  charm  for 

127 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

the  average  woman  reader.  Henry  had  flung  it  aside 
in  contempt.  Sylvia  thought  it  beautiful,  possibly 
for  the  reason  that  her  own  hard  sense  was  some 
times  a  strenuous  burden,  and  in  reading  this  she 
was  forced  to  put  it  behind  her.  However,  the  book 
did  not  prevent  her  from  returning  every  now  and 
then  to  her  own  life  and  the  happenings  in  it.  Hence 
her  stealthy  journeys  across  the  house  and  peeps  at 
the  men  in  the  grove.  If  they  were  nettled  by  a 
sense  of  feminine  mystery,  she  reciprocated.  "What 
on  earth  did  they  want  to  stop  Rose  from  going  to 
see  Lucy  for?"  seemed  to  stare  at  her  in  blacker 
type  than  the  characters  of  the  book. 

Presently,  when  she  saw  Horace  pass  the  window 
and  disappear  down  the  road,  she  laid  the  book  on 
the  table,  with  a  slip  of  paper  to  keep  the  place,  and 
hurried  out  to  the  grove.  She  found  Henry  leisurely 
coming  towards  the  house.  "Where  has  he  gone?" 
she  inquired,  with  a  jerk  of  her  shoulder  towards 
the  road. 

"Mr.  Allen?" 

"Yes." 

"How  should  I  know?" 

"Don't  you  know?" 

"Maybe  I  do,"  said  Henry,  smiling  at  Sylvia  with 
his  smile  of  affection  and  remembrance  that  she  was 


a  woman. 

"Why  don't  you  tell?" 


"Now,  Sylvia,"  said  Henry,  "you  must  remember 
that  Mr.  Allen  is  not  a  child.  He  is  a  grown  man, 
and  if  he  takes  it  into  his  head  to  go  anywhere  you 
can't  say  anything." 

Sylvia  looked  at  Henry  with  a  baffled  expression. 
128 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  think  he  might  spend  his  time  a  good  deal  more 
profitably  Sunday  afternoon  than  sitting  under  the 
trees  and  smoking,  or  going  walking,"  said  she,  rashly 
and  inconsequentially.  "If  he  would  only  sit  down 
and  read  some  good  book/' 

"You  can't  dictate  to  Mr.  Allen  what  he  shall  or 
shall  not  do,"  Henry  repeated. 

"Why  didn't  you  want  Rose  to  go  to  Lucy's?" 
asked  Sylvia,  making  a  charge  in  an  entirely  different 
quarter. 

Henry  scorned  to  lie.  "I  don't  know,"  he  replied, 
which  was  the  perfect  truth  as  far  as  it  went.  It  did 
not  go  quite  far  enough,  for  he  did  not  add  that  he 
did  not  know  why  Horace  Allen  did  not  want  her  to 
go,  and  that  was  his  own  reason. 

However,  Sylvia  could  not  possibly  fathom  that. 
She  sniffed  with  her  delicate  nostrils,  as  if  she  actu 
ally  smelled  some  questionable  odor  of  character. 
"You  men  have  mighty  queer  streaks,  that's  all  I've 
got  to  say,"  she  returned. 

When  they  were  in  the  house  again  she  resumed  her 
book,  reading  every  word  carefully,  and  Henry  took 
up  the  Sunday  paper,  which  he  had  not  finished.  The 
thoughts  of  both,  however,  turned  from  time  to  time 
towards  Horace.  Sylvia  did  not  know  where  he  had 
gone.  She  did  not  suspect.  Henry  knew,  but  he 
did  not  know  why.  Horace  had  sprung  suddenly  to 
his  feet  and  caught  up  his  hat  as  the  two  men  had 
been  sitting  under  the  trees.  Henry  had  emitted  a 
long  puff  of  tobacco  smoke  and  looked  inquiringly 
at  him  through  the  filmy  blue  of  it. 

"I  can't  stand  it  another  minute,"  said  Horace, 
almost  with  violence.  "I've  got  to  know  what  is 

129 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

going  on.  I  am  going  to  the  Ayres's  myself.  I  don't 
care  what  they  think.  I  don't  care  what  she  thinks. 
I  don't  care  what  anybody  thinks."  With  that  he 
was  gone. 

Henry  took  another  puff  at  his  pipe.  It  showed 
the  difference  between  the  masculine  and  the  femi 
nine  point  of  view  that  Henry  did  not  for  one  moment 
attach  a  sentimental  reason  to  Horace's  going.  He 
realized  Rose's  attractions.  The  very  probable  sup 
position  that  she  and  Horace  might  fall  in  love  with 
and  marry  each  other  had  occurred  to  him,  but  this 
he  knew  at  once  had  nothing  to  do  with  that.  He 
turned  the  whole  over  and  over  in  his  mind,  with  no 
result.  He  lacked  enough  premises  to  arrive  at  con 
clusions.  He  had  started  for  the  house  and  his  Sun 
day  paper  when  he  met  Sylvia,  and  had  resolved  to 
put  it  all  out  of  his  mind.  But  he  was  not  quite  able. 
There  is  a  masculine  curiosity  as  well  as  a  feminine, 
and  one  is  about  as  persistent  as  the  other. 

Meantime  Horace  was  walking  down  the  road  tow 
ards  the  Ayres  house.  It  was  a  pretty,  much-orna 
mented  white  cottage,  with  a  carefully  kept  lawn  and 
shade  trees.  At  one  side  was  an  old-fashioned  gar 
den  with  an  arbor.  In  this  arbor,  as  Horace  drew 
near,  he  saw  the  sweep  of  feminine  draperies.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  arbor  was  full  of  women.  In 
reality  there  were  only  three — Lucy,  her  mother,  and 
Rose. 

When  Rose  had  rung  the  door-bell  she  had  been 
surprised  by  what  sounded  like  a  mad  rush  to  answer 
her  ring.  Mrs.  Ayres  opened  the  door.  She  looked 
white  and  perturbed,  and  behind  her  showed  Lucy's 
face,  flushed  and  angry. 

130 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  knew  it  was  Miss  Fletcher;  I  told  you  so,  moth 
er,"  said  Lucy,  and  her  low,  sweet  voice  rang  out  like 
an  angry  bird's  with  a  sudden  break  for  the  high 
notes. 

Mrs.  Ayres  kept  her  self-possession  of  manner,  al 
though  her  face  showed  not  only  nervousness  but  some 
thing  like  terror.  "Good-afternoon,  Miss  Fletcher," 
she  said.  "Please  walk  in." 

"She  said  for  me  to  call  her  Rose,"  cried  Lucy. 
"Please  come  in,  Rose.  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

In  spite  of  the  cordial  words  the  girl's  voice  was 
strange.  Rose  stared  from  daughter  to  mother  and 
back  again.  "If  you  were  engaged,"  she  said,  rather 
coldly,  "if  you  would  prefer  that  I  come  some  other 
time—" 

"No,  indeed,"  cried  Lucy,  "no  other  time.  Yes, 
every  other  time.  What  am  I  saying?  But  I  want 
you  now,  too.  Come  right  up  to  my  room,  Rose.  I 
know  you  will  excuse  my  wrapper  and  my  bed's 
being  tumbled.  I  have  been  lying  down.  Come 
right  up." 

Rose  followed  Lucy,  and  to  her  astonishment  be 
came  aware  that  Lucy's  mother  was  following  her. 
Mrs.  Ayres  entered  the  room  with  the  two  girls. 
Lucy  looked  impatiently  at  her,  and  spoke  as  Rose 
wondered  any  daughter  could  speak.  "Rose  and  I 
have  some  things  to  talk  over,  mother,"  she  said. 

"Nothing,  I  guess,  that  your  mother  cannot  hear," 
returned  Mrs.  Ayres,  with  forced  pleasantry.  She 
sat  down,  and  Lucy  flung  herself  petulantly  upon  the 
bed,  where  she  had  evidently  been  lying,  but  seem 
ingly  not  reposing,  for  it  was  much  rumpled,  and  the 
pillows  gave  evidence  of  the  restless  tossing  of  a  weary 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

head.  Lucy  herself  had  a  curiously  rumpled  aspect, 
though  she  was  not  exactly  untidy.  Her  soft,  white, 
lace-trimmed  wrapper  carelessly  tied  with  blue  rib 
bons  was  wrinkled,  her  little  slippers  were  unbuttoned. 
Her  mass  of  soft  hair  was  half  over  her  shoulders. 
There  were  red  spots  on  the  cheeks  which  had  been 
so  white  in  the  morning,  and  her  eyes  shone.  She 
kept  tying  and  untying  two  blue  ribbons  at  the  neck 
of  her  wrapper  as  she  lay  on  the  bed  and  talked 
rapidly. 

"I  look  like  a  fright,  I  know,"  she  said.  "I  was 
tired  after  church,  and  slipped  off  my  dress  and  lay 
down.  My  hair  is  all  in  a  muss." 

"  It  is  such  lovely  hair  that  it  looks  pretty  anyway," 
said  Rose. 

Lucy  drew  a  strand  of  her  hair  violently  over  her 
shoulder.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  she  meant  to  tear 
it  out  by  the  roots. 

"Lucy!"  said  her  mother. 

"Oh, mother,  do  let  me  alone!"  cried  the  girl.  Then 
she  said,  looking  angrily  at  her  tress  of  hair,  then  at 
Rose:  "It  is  not  nearly  as  pretty  as  yours.  You 
know  it  isn't.  All  men  are  simply  crazy  over  hair 
your  color.  I  hate  my  hair.  I  just  hate  it." 

"Lucy!"  said  her  mother  again,  in  the  same  startled 
but  admonitory  tone. 

Lucy  made  an  impatient  face  at  her.  She  threw 
back  the  tress  of  hair.  "I  hate  it,"  said  she. 

Rose  began  to  feel  awkward.  She  noticed  Mrs. 
Ayres's  anxious  regard  of  her  daughter,  and  she 
thought  with  disgust  that  Lucy  Ay  res  was  not  so 
sweet  a  girl  as  she  had  seemed.  However,  she  felt 
an  odd  kind  of  sympathy  and  pity  for  her.  Lucy's 

132 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

pretty  face  and  her  white  wrapper  seemed  alike  awry 
with  nervous  suffering,  which  the  other  girl  dimly 
understood,  although  it  was  the  understanding  of  a 
normal  character  with  regard  to  an  abnormal  one. 

Rose  resolved  to  change  the  subject.  "I  did  enjoy 
your  singing  so  much  this  morning,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Lucy,  but  a  look  of  alarm 
instead  of  pleasure  appeared  upon  her  face,  which 
Rose  was  astonished  to  see  in  the  mother's  like 
wise. 

"I  feel  so  sorry  for  poor  Miss  Hart,  because  I  can 
not  think  for  a  moment  that  she  was  guilty  of  what 
they  accused  her  of,"  said  Rose,  "that  I  don't  like  to 
say  anything  about  her  singing.  But  I  will  say  this 
much:  I  did  enjoy  yours." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Lucy  again.  Her  look  of  mor 
tal  terror  deepened.  From  being  aggressively  ner 
vous,  she  looked  on  the  verge  of  a  collapse. 

Mrs.  Ayres  rose,  went  to  Lucy's  closet,  and  re 
turned  with  a  bottle  of  wine  and  a  glass.  "Here," 
she  said,  as  she  poured  out  the  red  liquor.  "You 
had  better  drink  this,  dear.  You  know  Dr.  Wallace 
said  you  must  drink  port  wine,  and  you  are  all  tired 
out  with  your  singing  this  morning." 

Lucy  seized  the  glass  and  drank  the  wine  eagerly. 

"It  must  be  a  nervous  strain,"  said  Rose,  "to 
stand  up  there,  before  such  a  crowded  audience  as 
there  was  this  morning,  and  sing." 

"Yes,  it  is."  agreed  Mrs.  Ayres,  in  a  harsh  voice, 
"and  especially  when  anybody  isn't  used  to  it.  Lucy 
is  not  at  all  strong." 

"I  hope  it  won't  be  too  much  for  her,"  said  Rose; 
"but  it  is  such  a  delight  to  listen  to  her  after — " 

133 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Oh,  I  am  tired  and  sick  of  hearing  Miss  Hart's 
name!"  cried  Lucy,  unpleasantly. 

"Lucy!"  said  Mrs.  Ayres. 

•'Well,  I  am,"  said  Lucy,  defiantly.  "It  has  been 
nothing  but  Miss  Hart,  Miss  Hart,  from  morning  until 
night  lately.  Nobody  thinks  she  poisoned  Miss  Par 
rel,  of  course.  It  was  perfect  nonsense  to  accuse  her 
of  it,  and  when  that  is  said,  I  think  myself  that  is 
enough.  I  see  no  need  of  this  eternal  harping  upon 
it.  I  have  heard  nothing  except  'poor  Miss  Hart' 
until  I  am  nearly  wild.  Come,  Rose,  I'll  get  dressed 
and  we'll  go  out  in  the  arbor.  It  is  too  pleasant  to 
stay  in-doors.  This  room  is  awfully  close." 

"I  think  perhaps  I  had  better  not  stay,"  Rose 
replied,  doubtfully.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was 
having  a  very  strange  call,  and  she  began  to  be  in 
dignant  as  well  as  astonished. 

"Of  course  you  are  going  to  stay,"  Lucy  said,  and 
her  voice  was  sweet  again.  "We'll  let  Miss  Hart 
alone  and  I'll  get  dressed,  and  we'll  go  in  the  arbor. 
It  is  lovely  out  there  to-day." 

With  that  Lucy  sprang  from  the  bed  and  let  her 
wrapper  slip  from  her  shoulders.  She  stood  before 
her  old  -  fashioned  black  -  walnut  bureau  and  began 
brushing  her  hair.  Her  white  arms  and  shoulders 
gleamed  through  it  as  she  brushed  with  what  seemed 
a  cruel  violence. 

Rose  laughed  in  a  forced  way.  "Why,  dear,  you 
brush  your  hair  as  if  it  had  offended  you,"  she  said. 

"Don't  brush  so  hard,  Lucy,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres. 

"I  just  hate  my  old  hair,  anyway,"  said  Lucy,  with 
a  vicious  stroke  of  the  brush.  She  bent  her  head 
over,  and  swept  the  whole  dark  mass  downward 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

until  it  concealed  her  face  and  nearly  touched  her 
knees.  Then  she  gave  it  a  deft  twist,  righted  herself, 
and  pinned  the  coil  in  place. 

"How  beautifully  you  do  up  your  hair,"  said  Rose. 

Lucy  cast  an  appreciative  glance  at  herself  in  the 
glass.  The  wine  had  deepened  the  glow  on  her 
cheeks.  Her  eyes  were  more  brilliant.  She  pulled 
her  hair  a  little  over  one  temple,  and  looked  at  her 
self  with  entire  satisfaction.  Lucy  had  beautiful 
neck  and  arms,  unexpectedly  plump  for  a  girl  so 
apparently  slender.  Her  skin  was  full  of  rosy  color, 
too.  She  gazed  at  the  superb  curve  of  her  shoulders 
rising  above  the  dainty  lace  of  her  corset-cover,  and 
smiled  undisguisedly. 

"I  wish  my  neck  was  as  plump  as  yours,"  said  Rose. 

"Yes,  she  has  a  nice,  plump  neck,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres. 
While  the  words  showed  maternal  pride,  the  tone  never 
relaxed  from  its  nervous  anxiety. 

Lucy's  smile  vanished  suddenly.  "Well,  what  if 
it  is  plump?"  said  she.  "What  is  the  use  of  it?  A 
girl  living  here  in  East  Westland  can  never  wear  a 
dress  to  show  her  neck.  People  would  think  she  had 
gone  out  of  her  mind." 

Rose  laughed.  "I  have  some  low-neck  gowns," 
said  she,  "but  I  can't  wear  them,  either.  Maybe  that 
is  fortunate  for  me,  my  neck  is  so  thin." 

"You  will  wrear  them  in  other  places,"  said  Lucy. 
"You  won't  stay  here  all  your  days.  You  will  have 
plenty  of  chances  to  wear  your  low-neck  gowns." 
She  spoke  again  in  her  unnaturally  high  voice.  She 
turned  towards  her  closet  to  get  her  dress. 

"Lucy!"  said  Mrs.  Ayres. 

"Well,  it  is  the  truth,"  said  Lucy.     "Don't  preach, 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

mother.  If  you  were  a  girl,  and  somebody  told  you 
your  neck  was  pretty,  and  you  knew  other  girls  had 
chances  to  wear  low-neck  dresses,  you  wouldn't  be 
above  feeling  it  a  little." 

"My  neck  was  as  pretty  as  yours  when  I  was  a  girl, 
and  I  never  wore  a  low-neck  dress  in  my  life,"  said 
Mrs.  Ayres. 

"Oh,  well,  you  got  married  when  you  were  eighteen," 
said  Lucy.  There  was  something  almost  coarse  in 
her  remark.  Rose  felt  herself  flush.  She  was  sophis 
ticated,  and  had  seen  the  world,  although  she  had 
been  closely  if  not  lovingly  guarded ;  but  she  shrank 
from  some  things  as  though  she  had  never  come  from 
under  a  country  mother's  wing  in  her  life. 

Lucy  got  a  pale-blue  muslin  gown  from  the  closet 
and  slipped  it  over  her  shoulders.  Then  she  stood 
for  her  mother  to  fasten  it  in  the  back.  Lucy  was 
lovely  in  this  cloud  of  blue,  with  edgings  of  lace  on 
the  ruffles  and  knots  of  black  velvet.  She  fastened 
her  black  velvet  girdle,  and  turned  herself  side  wise 
with  a  charming  feminine  motion,  to  get  the  effect  of 
her  slender  waist  between  the  curves  of  her  small 
hips  and  bust.  Again  she  looked  pleased. 

"You  are  dear  in  that  blue  gown,"  said  Rose. 

Lucy  smiled.  Then  she  scowled  as  suddenly.  She 
could  see  Rose  over  her  shoulder  in  the  glass.  "It  is 
awful  countrified,"  said  she.  "Look  at  the  sleeves 
and  look  at  yours.  Where  was  yours  made?" 

"My  dressmaker  in  New  York  made  it,"  faltered 
Rose.  She  felt  guilty  because  her  gown  was  undeni 
ably  in  better  .style. 

"There's  no  use  trying  to  have  anything  in  East 
Westland,"  said  Lucy. 

136 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

While  she  was  fastening  a  little  gold  brooch  at  her 
throat,  Rose  again  tried  to  change  the  subject.  "That 
candy  of  yours  looked  perfectly  delicious,"  said  she. 
"You  must  teach  me  how  you  make  it." 

Mrs.  Ayres  went  dead  white  in  a  moment.  She 
looked  at  Lucy  with  a  look  of  horror  which  the  girl 
did  not  meet.  She  went  on  fastening  her  brooch. 
"Did  you  like  it?"  she  asked,  carelessly. 

"An  accident  happened  to  it,  I  am  sorry  to  say," 
explained  Rose.  "Mr.  Allen  and  I  were  out  in  the 
grove,  and  somehow  he  jostled  me,1  and  the  candy 
got  scattered  on  the  ground,  and  he  stepped  on  it." 

"Were  you  and  he  alone  out  there?"  asked  Lucy, 
in  a  very  quiet  voice. 

Rose  looked  at  her  amazedly.  "Why,  no,  not  when 
that  happened!"  she  replied.  "Aunt  Sylvia  was  there, 
too."  She  spoke  a  little  resentfully.  "What  if  Mr. 
Allen  and  I  had  been  alone;  what  is  that  to  her?" 
she  thought. 

"There  is  some  more  candy,"  said  Lucy,  calmly. 
"I  will  get  it,  and  then  we  will  go  out  in  the  arbor. 
I  will  teach  you  to  make  the  candy  any  day.  It  is 
very  simple.  Come,  Rose  dear.  Mother,  we  are 
going  out  in  the  arbor." 

Mrs.  Ayres  rose  immediately.  She  preceded  the 
two  girls  down-stairs,  and  came  through  the  sitting- 
room  door  with  a  dish  of  candy  in  her  hand  just  as 
they  reached  it.  "Here  is  the  candy,  dear,"  she  said 
to  Lucy,  and  there  was  something  commanding  in 
her  voice. 

Lucy  took  the  dish,  a  pretty  little  decorated  affair, 
with  what  seemed  to  Rose  an  air  of  suspicion  and  a 
grudging  "thank  you,  mother." 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Come,  Rose,"  she  said.  She  led  the  way  and 
Rose  followed.  Mrs.  Ayres  returned  to  the  sitting- 
room.  The  girls  went  through  the  old-fashioned 
garden  with  its  flower-beds  outlined  with  box,  in 
which  the  earlier  flowers  were  at  their  prime,  to  the 
arbor.  It  was  a  pretty  old  structure,  covered  with 
the  shaggy  arms  of  an  old  grape-vine  whose  gold- 
green  leaves  were  just  uncurling.  Lucy  placed  the 
bowl  of  candy  on  the  end  of  the  bench  which  ran 
round  the  interior,  and,  to  Rose's  surprise,  seated 
herself  at  a  distance  from  it,  and  motioned  Rose  to 
sit  beside  her,  without  offering  her  any  candy.  Lucy 
leaned  against  Rose  and  looked  up  at  her.  She  look 
ed  young  and  piteous  and  confiding.  Rose  felt  again 
that  she  was  sweet  and  that  she  loved  her.  She  put 
her  arm  around  Lucy. 

"You  are  a  dear,"  said  she. 

Lucy  nestled  closer.  "I  know  you  must  have 
thought  me  perfectly  horrid  to  speak  as  I  did  to 
mother,"  said  she,  "but  you  don't  understand." 

Lucy  hesitated.     Rose  waited. 

"You  see,  the  trouble  is,"  Lucy  went  on,  "I  love 
mother  dearly,  of  course.  She  is  the  best  mother 
that  ever  a  girl  had,  but  she  is  always  so  anxious  about 
me,  and  she  follows  me  about  so,  and  I  get  nervous, 
and  I  know  I  don't  always  speak  as  I  should.  I  am 
often  ashamed  of  myself.  You  see — " 

Lucy  hesitated  again  for  a  longer  period.  Rose 
waited. 

"Mother  has  times  of  being  very  nervous,"  Lucy 
said,  in  a  whisper.  "I  sometimes  think,  when  she 
follows  me  about  so,  that  she  is  not  for  the  time  being 
quite  herself." 

138 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Rose  started  and  looked  at  the  other  girl  in  horror. 
"Why  don't  you  have  a  doctor?"  said  she. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  she — I  don't  mean  that 
there  is  anything  serious,  only  she  has  always  been 
over-anxious  about  me,  and  at  times  I  fancy  she  is 
nervous,  and  then  the  anxiety  grows  beyond  limit. 
She  always  gets  over  it.  I  don't  mean  that — " 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know,"  said  Rose. 

"I  never  mean  to  be  impatient,"  Lucy  went  on, 
"but  to-day  I  was  very  tired,  and  I  wanted  to  see 
you  especially.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  something." 

"What?" 

Lucy  looked  away  from  Rose.  She  seemed  to 
shrink  within  herself.  The  color  faded  from  her  face. 
"I  heard  something,"  she  said,  faintly,  "but  I  said 
I  wouldn't  believe  it  until  I  had  asked  you." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  heard  that  you  were  engaged  to  marry  Mr. 
Allen." 

Rose  flushed  and  moved  away  a  little  from  Lucy. 
"You  can  contradict  the  rumor  whenever  you  hear 
it  again,"  said  she. 

"Then  it  isn't  true?" 

"No,  it  isn't." 

Lucy  nestled  against  Rose,  in  spite  of  a  sudden 
coldness  which  had  come  over  the  other  girl.  "You 
are  so  dear,"  said  she. 

Rose  looked  straight  ahead,  and  sat  stiffly. 

"I  am  thoroughly  angry  at  such  rumors,  merely 
because  a  girl  happens  to  be  living  in  the  same  house 
with  a  marriageable  man,"  said  she. 

"Yes,  that  is  so,"  said  Lucy.  She  remained  quiet 
for  a.  few  moments,  leaning  against  Rose,  her  blue- 

139 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

clad  shoulder  pressing  lovingly  the  black-clad  one. 
Then  she  moved  away  a  little,  and  reared  her  pretty 
back  with  a  curious,  snakelike  motion.  Rose  watched 
her.  Lucy's  eyes  fastened  themselves  upon  her,  and 
something  strange  happened.  Either  Lucy  Ayres  was 
a  born  actress,  or  she  had  become  actually  so  imbued, 
through  abnormal  emotion  and  love,  with  the  very 
spirit  of  the  man  that  she  was  capable  of  projecting 
his  own  emotions  and  feelings  into  her  own  soul  and 
thence  upon  her  face.  At  all  events,  she  looked  at 
Rose,  and  slowly  Rose  became  bewildered.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  Horace  Allen  was  looking  at  her  through 
the  eyes  of  this  girl,  with  a  look  which  she  had  often 
seen  since  their  very  first  meeting.  She  felt  herself 
glowing  from  head  to  foot.  She  was  conscious  of  a 
deep  crimson  stealing  all  over  her  face  and  neck.  Her 
eyes  fell  before  the  other  girl's.  Then  suddenly  it 
was  all  over.  Lucy  rose  with  a  little  laugh.  "You 
sweet,  funny  creature,"  she  said.  "I  can  make  you 
blush,  looking  at  you,  as  if  I  were  a  man.  Well,  maybe 
I  love  you  as  well  as  one."  Lucy  took  the  bowl  of 
candy  from  the  bench  and  extended  it  to  Rose.  "Do 
have  some  candy,"  said  she. 

"Thank  you,*'  said  Rose.  She  looked  bewildered, 
and  felt  so.  She  took  a  sugared  almond  and  began 
nibbling  at  it.  "Aren't  you  going  to  eat  any  candy 
yourself?"  said  she. 

"I  have  eaten  so  much  already  that  it  has  made 
my  head  ache,"  replied  Lucy.  "Is  it  good?" 

"  Simply  delicious.  You  must  teach  me  how  you 
make  such  candy." 

"Lucy  will  be  glad  to  teach  you  any  day,"  said 
Mrs.  Ayres's  voice.  She  had  come  swiftly  upon  them, 

140 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

and  entered  the  arbor  with  a  religious  newspaper  in 
her  hand.  Lucy  no  longer  seemed  annoyed  by  her 
mother's  following  her.  She  only  set  the  candy  be 
hind  her  with  a  quick  movement  which  puzzled  Rose. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  offer  your  mother  some?" 
she  asked,  laughing. 

"Mother  can't  eat  candy.  Dr.  Wallace  has  for 
bidden  it,"  Lucy  said,  quickly. 

"Yes,  that  is  quite  true,"  assented  Mrs.  Ayres. 
She  began  reading  her  paper.  Lucy  offered  the  bowl 
again  to  Rose,  who  took  a  bonbon.  She  was  just 
swallowing  it  when  Horace  Allen  appeared.  He  made 
a  motion  which  did  not  escape  Mrs.  Ayres.  She  rose 
and  confronted  him  with  perfect  calmness  and  dig 
nity.  "Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Allen,"  she  said. 

Lucy  had  sprung  up  quickly.  She  was  very  white. 
Horace  said  good-afternoon  perfunctorily,  and  looked 
at  Rose. 

Mrs.  Ayres  caught  up  the  bowl  of  candy.  "Let 
me  offer  you  some,  Mr.  Allen,"  she  said.  "  It  is  home 
made  candy,  and  quite  harmless,  I  assure  you." 

Her  fair,  elderly  face  confronted  him  smilingly, 
her  voice  was  calm. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Horace,  and  took  a  sugared 
almond. 

Lucy  made  a  movement  as  if  to  stop  him,  but  her 
mother  laid  her  hand  with  gentle  firmness  on  her 
arm.  "Sit  down,  Lucy,"  she  said,  and  Lucy  sat  down. 


CHAPTER   XII 

HENRY  WHITMAN  and  his  wife  Sylvia  remained, 
the  one  reading  his  Sunday  paper,  the  other  her 
book,  while  Horace  and  Rose  were  away.  Henry's 
paper  rustled,  Sylvia  turned  pages  gently.  Occasion 
ally  she  smiled  the  self-satisfied  smile  of  the  reader 
who  thinks  she  understands  the  author,  to  her  own 
credit.  Henry  scowled  over  his  paper  the  scowl  of 
one  who  reads  to  disapprove,  to  his  own  credit. 

Both  were  quite  engrossed.  Sylvia  had  reached  an 
extremely  interesting  portion  of  her  book,  and  Henry 
was  reading  a  section  of  his  paper  which  made  him  fair 
ly  warlike.  However,  the  clock  striking  four  aroused 
both  of  them. 

"I  think  it  is  very  funny  that  they  have  not  come 
home,"  said  Sylvia. 

"I  dare  say  they  will  be  along  pretty  soon,"  said 
Henry. 

Sylvia  looked  keenly  at  him.  "Henry  Whitman, 
did  he  go  to  the  Ayres's?"  said  she. 

Henry,  cornered,  told  the  truth.  "Well,  I  shouldn't 
wonder,"  he  admitted. 

"I  think  it  is  pretty  work,"  said  Sylvia,  angry 
red  spots  coming  in  her  cheeks. 

Henry  said  nothing. 

"The  idea  that  a  young  man  can't  be  in  the  house 
142 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

with  a  girl  any  longer  than  this  without  his  fairly 
chasing  her,"  said  Sylvia. 

"Who  knows  that  he  is?" 

"Do  you  think  he  is  interested  in  the  Ayres  girl?" 

"No,  I  don't." 

"Then  it  is  Rose,"  said  Sylvia.  "Pretty  work,  I 
call  it.  Here  she  is  with  her  own  folks  in  this  nice 
home,  with  everything  she  needs." 

Henry  looked  at  Sylvia  with  astonishment.  "Why," 
he  said,  "girls  get  married!  You  got  married  your 
self." 

"I  know  I  did,"  said  Sylvia,  "but  that  hasn't  got 
anything  to  do  with  it.  Of  course  he  has  to  chase 
her  the  minute  she  comes  within  gunshot." 

"Still,  there's  one  thing  certain,  if  she  doesn't  want 
him  he  can  take  it  out  in  chasing,  if  he  is  chasing, 
and  I  don't  think  he  is,"  said  Henry.  "Nobody  is 
going  to  make  Rose  marry  any  man." 

"She  don't  act  a  mite  in  love  with  him,"  said 
Sylvia,  ruminatingly.  "She  seemed  real  mad  with 
him  this  noon  about  that  candy.  Henry,  that  was  a 
funny  thing  for  him  to  do." 

"What?"  asked  Henry,  who  had  so  far  only  gotten 
Rose's  rather  vague  account  of  the  candy  episode. 

Sylvia  explained.  "He  actually  knocked  that  candy 
out  of  her  hand,  and  made  her  spill  the  whole  box, 
and  then  trampled  on  it.  I  saw  him." 

Henry  stared  at  Sylvia.  "It  must  have  been  an 
accident,"  said  he. 

"It  looked  like  an  accident  on  purpose,"  said  Sylvia. 
"Well,  I  guess  I'll  go  out  and  make  some  of  that 
salad  they  like  so  much  for  supper." 

After  Sylvia  had  gone  Henry  sat  for  a  while  re- 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

fleeting,  then  he  went  noiselessly  out  of  the  front 
door  and  round  to  the  grove.  He  found  the  scat 
tered  pieces  of  candy  and  the  broken  box  quickly 
enough.  He  cast  a  wary  glance  around,  and  gathered 
the  whole  mass  up  and  thrust  it  into  the  pocket  of  his 
Sunday  coat.  Then  he  stole  back  to  the  house  and 
got  his  hat  and  went  out  again.  He  was  hurrying 
along  the  road,  when  he  met  Horace  and  Rose  re 
turning.  Rose  was  talking,  seemingly,  with  a  cold 
earnestness  to  her  companion.  Horace  seemed  to  be 
listening  passively.  Henry  thought  he  looked  pale 
and  anxious.  When  he  saw  Henry  he  smiled.  "I 
have  an  errand,  a  business  errand,"  explained  Henry. 
"Please  tell  Mrs.  Whitman  I  shall  be  home  in  time 
for  supper.  I  don't  think  she  knew  when  I  went  out. 
She  was  in  the  kitchen." 

"All  right,"  replied  Horace. 

After  he  had  passed  them  Henry  caught  the  words, 
"I  think  you  owe  me  an  explanation,"  in  Rose's 
voice. 

"It  is  about  this  blamed  candy,"  thought  Henry, 
feeling  the  crumpled  mass  in  his  pocket.  He  had  a 
distrust  of  candy,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  he 
would  have  an  awkward  explanation  to  make  if  the 
candy  should  by  any  possibility  melt  and  stick  to  the 
pocket  of  his  Sunday  coat.  He  therefore  took  out 
the  broken  box  and  carried  it  in  his  hand,  keeping 
the  paper  wrapper  firmly  around  it.  "What  in  crea 
tion  is  it  all  about?"  he  thought,  irritably.  He  felt 
a  sense  of  personal  injury.  Henry  enjoyed  calm,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  being  decidedly  disturbed, 
as  by  mysterious  noises  breaking^  in  upon  the  even 
tenor  of  his  life. 

144 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Sylvia  is  keeping  something  to  herself  that  is 
worrying  her  to  death,  in  spite  of  her  being  so  tickled 
to  have  the  girl  with  us,  and  now  here  is  this  candy," 
he  said  to  himself.  He  understood  that  for  some 
reason  Horace  had  not  wanted  Rose  to  eat  the  candy, 
that  he  had  resorted  to  fairly  desperate  measures  to 
prevent  it,  but  he  could  not  imagine  why.  He  had 
no  imagination  for  sensation  or  melodrama,  and  the 
candy  affair  was  touching  that  line.  He  had  been 
calmly  prosaic  with  regard  to  Miss  Parrel's  death. 
"They  can  talk  all  they  want  to  about  murder  and 
suicide,"  he  had  said  to  Sylvia.  "I  don't  believe  a 
word  of  it." 

"But  the  doctors  found — "  began  Sylvia. 

"Found  nothing,"  interposed  Henry.  "What  do 
doctors  know?  She  et  something  that  hurt  her. 
How  do  doctors  know  but  what  anybody  might  eat 
something  that  folks  think  is  wholesome,  that,  if  the 
person  ain't  jest  right  for  it,  acts  like  poison  ?  Doctors 
don't  know  much.  She  et  something  that  hurt  her." 

"Poor  Lucinda's  cooking  is  enough  to  hurt  'most 
anybody,"  admitted  Sylvia;  "but  they  say  they 
found — " 

' '  Don ' t  talk  such  stuff, ' '  said  Henry,  fiercely.  * '  She 
et  something.  I  don't  know  what  you  women  like 
best  to  suck  at,  candy  or  horrors." 

Now  Henry  was  forced  to  admit  that  he  himself 
was  confronted  by  something  mysterious.  Why  had 
Horace  fairly  flung  that  candy  on  the  ground,  and 
trampled  on  it,  unless  he  had  suddenly  gone  mad, 
or —  ?  There  Henry  brought  himself  up  with  a  jolt. 
He  absolutely  refused  to  suspect.  "I'd  jest  as  soon 
eat  all  that's  left  of  the  truck  myself,"  he  thought, 

MS 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"only  I  couldn't  bear  candy  since  I  was  a  child,  and 
I  ain't  going  to  eat  it  for  anybody." 

Henry  had  to  pass  the  Ayres  house.  Just  as  he 
came  abreast  of  it  he  heard  a  hysterical  sob,  then 
another,  from  behind  the  open  windows  of  a  room  on 
the  second  floor,  whose  blinds  were  closed.  Henry 
made  a  grimace  and  went  his  way.  He  was  bound 
for  Sidney  Meeks's.  He  found  the  lawyer  in  his 
office  in  an  arm-chair,  which  whirled  like  a  top  at  the 
slightest  motion  of  its  occupant.  Around  him  were 
strewn  Sunday  papers,  all  that  could  be  bought.  On 
the  desk  before  him  stood  a  bottle  of  clear  yellow 
wine,  half-emptied. 

Sidney  looked  up  and  smiled  as  Henry  entered. 
"Here  I  am  in  a  vortex  of  crime  and  misrule,"  he 
said,  "and  I  should  have  been  out  of  my  wits  if  it 
had  not  been  for  that  wine.  There's  another  glass 
over  there,  Henry;  get  it  and  help  yourself." 

"Guess  I  won't  take  any  now,  thank  you,"  said 
Henry.  "It's  just  before  supper." 

"Maybe  you  are  wise,"  admitted  the  lawyer.  He 
slouched  before  Henry  in  untidy  and  unmended,  but 
clean,  Sunday  attire.  Sidney  Meeks  was  as  clean  as  a 
gentleman  should  be,  but  there  was  never  a  crease 
except  of  ease  in  his  clothes,  and  he  was  so  buttonless 
that  women  feared  to  look  at  him  closely.  "It  might 
go  to  your  head,"  said  Sidney.  "It  went  to  mine 
a  little,  but  that  was  unavoidable.  After  one  of 
those  papers  there  my  head  was  mighty  near  being  a 
vacuum." 

"What  do  you  read  the  papers  for?"  asked  Henry. 

"Because,"  said  Sidney,  "I  feel  it  incumbent  upon 
me  to  be  well  informed  concerning  two  things,  al- 

146 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

though  I  verily  believe  it  to  be  true  that  I  have 
precious  little  of  either,  and  they  cannot  directly 
concern  me.  I  want  to  know  about  the  stock  market, 
although  I  don't  own  a  blessed  share  in  anything 
except  an  old  mine  out  West  on  a  map ;  and  I  want  to 
know  what  evil  is  fermenting  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
though  I  am  pretty  sure,  in  spite  of  the  original  sin 
part  of  it,  that  precious  little  is  fermenting  in  mine. 
About  three  o'clock  this  afternoon  I  came  to  the  con 
clusion  that  we  were  in  hell  or  Sodom,  or  else  the 
newspaper  men  got  saved  from  the  general  destruc 
tion  along  with  Lot.  So  I  got  a  bottle  of  this  blessed 
wine,  and  now  I  am  fully  convinced  that  I  am  on  a 
planet  which  is  the  work  of  the  Lord  Almighty,  and 
only  created  for  an  end  of  redemption  and  eternal 
bliss,  and  that  the  newspaper  men  are  enough  sight 
better  than  Lot  ever  thought  of  being,  and  are 
spending  Sunday  as  they  should,  peacefully  in  the 
bosoms  of  their  own  families.  In  fact,  Henry,  my 
mental  and  spiritual  outlook  has  cleared.  What  in 
creation  is  that  wad  of  broken  box  you  are  carrying 
as  if  it  would  go  off  any  minute  ?" 

Henry  told  him  the  story  in  a  few  words. 

"Gee  whiz!"  said  Meeks.  "I  thought  I  had  finished 
the  Sunday  papers  and  here  you  are  with  another 
sensation.  Let's  see  the  stuff." 

Henry  gave  the  crumpled  box  with  the  mass  of 
candy  to  Meeks,  who  examined  it  closely.  He  smelled 
of  it.  He  even  tasted  a  bit.  "It's  all  beyond  me," 
he  said,  finally.  "I  am  loath  to  admit  that  a  sensa 
tion  has  lit  upon  us  here  in  East  Westland.  Leave 
it  with  me,  and  I'll  see  what  is  the  matter  with  it,  if 
there's  anything.  I  don't  think  myself  there's  any- 


THE    SHOULDERS    OP    ATLAS 

thing,  but  I'll  take  jt  to  Wallace.  He's  an  analytical 
chemist,  and  holds  his  tongue,  which  is  worth  more 
than  the  chemistry." 

"You  will  not  say  a  word — "  began  Henry,  but 
Meeks  interrupted  him. 

"Don't  you  know  me  well  enough  by  this  time?" 
he  demanded,  and  Henry  admitted  that  he  did. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  want  all  this  blessed  little  town 
in  a  tumult,  and  the  devil  to  pay?"  said  Meeks.  "It 
is  near  time  for  me  to  start  some  daisy  wine,  too.  I 
shouldn't  have  a  minute  free.  There 'd  be  suits  for 
damages,  and  murder  trials,  and  the  Lord  knows 
what.  I'd  rather  make  my  daisy  wine.  Leave  this 
damned  sticky  mess  with  me,  and  I'll  see  to  it.  What 
in  creation  any  young  woman  in  her  senses  wants  to 
spend  her  time  in  making  such  stuff  for,  anyway, 
beats  me.  Women  are  all  more  or  less  fools,  anyhow. 
I  suppose  they  can't  help  it,  but  we  ought  to  have 
it  in  mind." 

"I  suppose  there's  something  in  it,"  said  Henry, 
rather  doubtfully. 

Meeks  laughed.  "Oh,  I  don't  expect  any  man 
with  a  wife  to  agree  with  me,"  he  said.  "You  might 
as  well  try  to  lift  yourself  by  your  boot-straps;  but 
I've  got  standing  -  ground  outside  the  situation  and 
you  haven't.  Good-night,  Henry.  Don't  fret  your 
self  over  this.  I'll  let  you  know  as  soon  as  I  know 
myself." 

Henry,  passing  the  Ay  res  house  on  his  way  home, 
fancied  he  heard  again  a  sob,  but  this  time  it  was  so 
stifled  that  he  was  not  sure.  "It's  mighty  queer 
work,  anyway,"  he  thought.  He  thought  also  that 
though  he  should  have  liked  a  son,  he  was  very  glad 

148 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

that  he  and  Sylvia  had  not  owned  a  daughter.  He 
was  fond  of  Rose,  but,  although  she  was  a  normal  girl, 
she  often  gave  him  a  sense  of  mystery  which  irritated 
him. 

Had  Henry  Whitman  dreamed  of  what  was  really 
going  on  in  the  Ay  res  house,  he  would  have  been 
devoutly  thankful  that  he  had  no  daughter.  He  had 
in  reality  heard  the  sob  which  he  had  not  been  sure 
of.  It  had  come  from  Lucy's  room.  Her  mother 
was  there  with  her.  The  two  had  been  closeted  to 
gether  ever  since  Rose  had  gone.  Lucy  had  rushed 
up-stairs  and  pulled  off  her  pretty  gown  with  a 
hysterical  fury.  She  had  torn  it  at  the  neck,  because 
the  hooks  would  not  unfasten  easily,  before  her 
mother,  who  moved  more  slowly,  had  entered  the 
room. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Lucy?"  Mrs.  Ayres  asked, 
in  a  voice  which  was  at  once  tender  and  stern. 

"Getting  out  of  this  old  dress,"  replied  Lucy, 
fiercely.  • 

"Stand  round  here  by  the  light,"  said  her  mother, 
calmly.  Lucy  obeyed.  She  stood,  although  her 
shoulders  twitched  nervously,  while  her  mother  un 
fastened  her  gown.  Then  she  began  almost  tearing 
off  her  other  garments.  "Lucy,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres, 
"you  are  over  twenty  years  old,  and  a  woman  grown, 
but  you  are  not  as  strong  as  I  am,  and  I  used  to 
take  you  over  my  knee  and  spank  you  when  you 
were  a  child  and  didn't  behave,  and  I'll  do  it  now  if 
you  are  not  careful.  You  unfasten  that  corset-cover 
properly.  You  are  tearing  the  lace." 

Lucy  gazed  at  her  mother  a  moment  in  a  frenzy 
of  rage,  then  suddenly  her  face  began  to  work  pite- 

149 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

ously.  She  flung  herself  face  downward  upon  her 
bed,  and  sobbed  long,  hysterical  sobs.  Then  Mrs. 
Ay  res  waxed  tender.  She  bent  over  the  girl,  and 
gently  untied  ribbons  and  unfastened  buttons,  and 
slipped  a  night-gown  over  her  head.  Then  she  rolled 
her  over  in  the  bed,  as  if  she  had  been  a  baby,  and 
laid  her  own  cheek  against  the  hot,  throbbing  one  of 
the  girl.  "Mother's  lamb,"  she  said,  softly.  "There, 
there,  dear,  mother  knows  all  about  it." 

"You  don't,"  gasped  the  girl.  "What  do  you 
know?  You  —  you  were  married  when  you  were 
years  younger  than  I  am."  There  was  something 
violently  accusing  in  her  tone.  She  thrust  her  mother 
away  and  sat  up  in  bed,  and  looked  at  her  with 
fierce  eyes  blazing  like  lamps  in  her  soft,  flushed 
face. 

"I  know  it,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres.  "I  know  it,  and  I 
know  what  you  mean,  Lucy;  but  there  is  something 
else  which  I  know  and  you  do  not." 

"I'd  like  to  know  what!" 

"How  a  mother  reads  the  heart  of  her  child." 

Lucy  stared  at  her  mother.  Her  face  softened. 
Then  it  grew  burning  red  and  angrier.  "You  taunt 
me  with  that,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper — "with  that  and 
everything."  She  buried  her  face  in  her  crushed  pil 
low  again  and  burst  into  long  wails. 

Mrs.  Ayres  smoothed  her  hair.  "Lucy,"  said  she, 
"listen.  I  know  what  is  going  on  within  you  as  you 
don't  know  it  yourself.  I  know  the  agony  of  it  as 
you  don't  know  it  yourself." 

"I'd  like  to  know  how." 

"Because  you  are  my  child;  because  I  can  hardly 
sleep  for  thinking  of  you;  because  every  one  of  my 

150 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

waking  moments  is  filled  with  you.  Lucy,  because 
I  am  your  mother  and  you  are  yourself.  I  am  not 
taunting  you.  I  understand." 

"You  can't." 

"  I  do.  I  know  just  how  you  felt  about  that  young 
man  from  the  city  who  boarded  at  the  hotel  six  years 
ago.  I  know  how  you  felt  about  Tom  Merrill,  who 
called  here  a  few  times,  and  then  stopped,  and  mar 
ried  a  girl  from  Boston.  I  have  known  exactly  how 
you  have  felt  about  all  the  others,  and — I  know  about 
this  last."  Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper. 

"I  have  had  some  reason,"  Lucy  said,  with  a  ter 
rible  eagerness  of  self-defence.  "I  have,  mother." 

"What?" 

"One  day,  the  first  year  he  came,  I  was  standing 
at  the  gate  beside  that  flowering-almond  bush,  and 
it  was  all  in  flower,  and  he  came  past  and  he  looked 
at  the  bush  and  at  me,  then  at  the  bush  again,  and 
he  said,  'How  beautiful  that  is!'  But,  mother,  he 
meant  me." 

"What  else?" 

"You  remember  he  called  here  once." 

"Yes,  Lucy,  to  ask  you  to  sing  at  the  school  en 
tertainment." 

"Mother,  it  wras  for  more  than  that.  You  did  not 
hear  him  speak  at  the  door.  He  said,  'I  shall  count 
on  you;  you  cannot  disappoint  me.'  You  did  not 
hear  his  voice,  mother." 

"What  else,  Lucy?" 

"Once,  one  night  last  winter,  when  I  was  coming 
home  from  the  post-office,  it  was  after  dark,  and  he 
walked  way  to  the  house  with  me,  and  he  told  me  a 
lot  about  himself.  He  told  me  how  all  alone  in  the 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

world  he  was,  and  how  hard  it  was  for  a  man  to  have 
nobody  who  really  belonged  to  him  in  the  wide  world, 
and  when  he  said  good-night  at  the  gate  he  held  my 
hand — quite  a  while;  he  did,  mother." 

"What  else,  Lucy?" 

"You  remember  that  picnic,  the  trolley  picnic  to 
Alford.  He  sat  next  to  me  coming  home,  and — " 

"And  what?" 

"There  were  only — four  on  the  seat,  and  he — he 
sat  very  close,  and  told  me  some  more  about  him 
self:  how  he  had  been  alone  ever  since  he  was  a  little 
boy,  and — how  hard  it  had  been.  Then  he  asked 
how  long  ago  father  died,  and  if  I  remembered,  and 
if  I  missed  him  still." 

"I  don't  quite  understand,  dear,  how  that — " 

"You  didn't  hear  the  way  he  spoke,  mother." 

"What  else,  Lucy?" 

"He  has  always  looked  at  me  very  much  across 
the  church,  and  whenever  I  have  met  him  it  has  not 
been  so  much  what — he  said  as — his  manner.  You 
have  not  known  what  his  manner  was,  and  you  have 
not  heard  how  he  spoke,  nor  seen  his  eyes  when — he 
looked  at  me — " 

"Yes,  dear,  you  are  right.  I  have  not.  Then  you 
have  thought  he  was  in  love  with  you?" 

"Sometimes  he  has  made  me  think  so,  mother," 
Lucy  sobbed. 

Mrs.  Ayres  gazed  pitifully  at  the  girl.  "Then  when 
you  thought  perhaps  he  was  not  you  felt  badly." 

"Oh,  mother!" 

"You  were  not  yourself." 

"Oh,  mother!" 

Mrs.  Ayres  took  the  girl  by  her  two  slender  shoul- 
152 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

ders;  she  bent  her  merciful,  loving  face  close  to  the 
younger  one,  distraught,  and  full  of  longing,  primeval 
passion.  "Lucy,"  she  whispered,  "your  mother  never 
lost  sight  of — anything." 

Lucy  turned  deadly  white.  She  stared  back  at  her 
mother. 

"You  thought  perhaps  he  was  in  love  with  Miss 
Parrel,  didn't  you?"  Mrs.  Ayres  said,  in  a  very  low 
whisper. 

Lucy  nodded,  still  staring  with  eyes  of  horrified 
inquiry  at  her  mother. 

"You  had  seen  him  with  her?" 

"Ever  so  many  times,  walking,  and  he  took  her 
to  ride,  and  I  saw  him  coming  out  of  the  hotel.  I 
thought—" 

"Listen,  Lucy."  Mrs.  Ayres's  whisper  was  hardly 
audible.  "Mother  made  some  candy  and  sent  it  to 
Miss  Farrel.  She — never  had  any  that  anybody  else 
made.  It — was  candy  that  would  not  hurt  anybody 
that  she  had." 

Lucy's  face  lightened  as  if  with  some  veritable 
illumination. 

"Mother  perhaps  ought  not  to  have  let  you  think 
— as  you  did,  so  long,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres,  "but  she 
thought  perhaps  it  was  best,  and,  Lucy,  mother  has 
begun  to  realize  that  it  was.  Now  you  think,  per 
haps,  he  is  in  love  with  this  other  girl,  don't  you?" 

"They  are  living  in  the  same  house,"  returned 
Lucy,  in  a  stifled  shriek,  "and — and— I  found  out 
this  afternoon  that  she — she  is  in  love  with  him.  And 
she  is  so  pretty,  and — "  Lucy  sobbed  wildly. 

"Mother  has  been  watching  every  minute,"  said 
Mrs.  Ayres. 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Mother,  I  haven't  killed  him?" 

"No,  dear.     Mother  made  the  candy." 

Lucy  sobbed  and  trembled  convulsively.  Mrs. 
Ayres  stroked  her  hair  until  she  was  a  little  quieter, 
then  she  spoke.  "Lucy,"  she  said,  "the  time  has  come 
for  you  to  listen  to  mother,  and  you  must  listen." 

Lucy  looked  up  at  her  with  her  soft,  terrible  eyes. 

"You  are  not  in  love  with  this  last  man,"  said 
Mrs.  Ayres,  quietly.  "You  were  not  in  love  with 
any  of  the  others.  It  is  all  because  you  are  a  woman, 
and  the  natural  longings  of  a  woman  are  upon  you. 
The  time  has  come  for  you  to  listen  and  understand. 
It  is  right  that  you  should  have  what  you  want,  but 
if  the  will  of  God  is  otherwise  you  must  make  the 
best  of  it.  There  are  other  things  in  life,  or  it  would 
be  monstrous.  It  will  be  no  worse  for  you  than  for 
thousands  of  other  women  who  go  through  life  un 
married.  You  have  no  excuse  to — commit  crime  or 
to  become  a  wreck.  I  tell  you  there  are  other  things 
besides  that  which  has  taken  hold  of  you,  soul  and 
body.  There  are  spiritual  things.  There  is  the  will 
of  God,  which  is  above  the  will  of  the  flesh  and  the 
will  of  the  fleshly  heart.  It  is  for  you  to  behave 
yourself  and  take  what  comes.  You  are  still  young, 
and  if  you  were  not  there  is  always  room  in  life  for 
a  gift  of  God.  You  may  yet  have  what  you  are  cry 
ing  out  for.  In  the  mean  time — " 

Lucy  interrupted  with  a  wild  cry.  "Oh,  mother, 
you  will  take  care  of  me,  you  will  watch  me!" 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,  Lucy,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres, 
grimly  and  tenderly.      "I  will  watch   you,   and — 
She  hesitated    a   moment,  then   she    continued,  "If 
I  ever  catch  you  buying  that  again — " 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

But  Lucy  interrupted. 

"Oh,  mother,"  she  said,  "this  last  time  it  was  not 
— it  really  was  not — that!  It  was  only  something 
that  would  have  made  her  sick  a  little.  It  would 
not  have —  It  was  not  that!'' 

"  If  I  ever  do  catch  you  buying  that  again,"  said  Mrs. 
Ayres,  "you  will  know  what  a  whipping  is."  Her  tone 
was  almost  whimsical,  but  it  had  a  terrible  emphasis. 

Lucy  shrank.  "  I  didn't  put  enough  of  that  in  to — 
to  do  much  harm,"  she  murmured,  "  but  I  never  will 
again." 

"No,  you  had  better  not,"  assented  Mrs.  Ayres. 
"Now  slip  on  your  wrapper  and  come  down-stairs 
with  me.  I  am  going  to  warm  up  some  of  that 
chicken  on  toast  the  way  you  like  it,  for  supper,  and 
then  I  am  coming  back  up-stairs  with  you,  and  you 
are  going  to  lie  down,  and  I'll  read  that  interesting 
book  we  got  out  of  the  library." 

Lucy  obeyed  like  a  child.  Her  mother  helped  her 
slip  the  wrapper  over  her  head,  and  the  two  went 
down -stairs. 

After  supper  that  night  Sidney  Meeks  called  at  the 
Whitmans'.  He  did  not  stay  long.  He  had  brought 
a  bottle  of  elder-flower  wine  for  Sylvia.  As  he  left  he 
looked  at  Henry,  who  followed  him  out  of  the  house 
into  the  street.  They  paused  just  outside  the  gate. 

"Well?"  said  Henry,  interrogatively. 

"All  right,"  responded  Meeks.  "What  it  is  all 
about  beats  me.  The  stuff  wouldn't  hurt  a  babe  in 
arms,  unless  it  gave  it  indigestion.  Your  boarder 
hasn't  insanity  in  his  family,  has  he?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  replied  Henry.  Then  he  re 
peated  Meeks's  comment.  "It  beats  me,"  he  said, 

155 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

When  Henry  re-entered  the  house  Sylvia  looked  at 
him.  "What  were  you  and  Mr.  Meeks  talking  about 
out  in  the  street?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Henry,  lying  as  a  man  may  to 
a  woman  or  a  child. 

' '  He 's  in  there  with  her, ' '  whispered  Sylvia.  ' '  They 
went  in  there  the  minute  Mr.  Meeks  and  you  went  out." 
Sylvia  pointed  to  the  best  parlor  and  looked  miserably 
jealous. 

"Well,"  said  Henry,  tentatively. 

"If  they've  got  anything  to  say  I  don't  see  why 
they  can't  say  it  here,"  said  Sylvia. 

"The  door  is  open,"  said  Henry. 

"I  ain't  going  to  listen,  if  it  is,  and  you  know  I 
can't  hear  with  one  ear,"  said  Sylvia.  "Of  course  I 
don't  care,  but  I  don't  see  why  they  went  in  there. 
What  were  you  and  Mr.  Meeks  talking  about,  Henry  ?" 

"Nothing,"  answered  Henry,  cheerfully,  again. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ROSE  FLETCHER  had  had  a  peculiar  training.  She 
had  in  one  sense  belonged  to  the  ranks  of  the  fully 
sophisticated,  who  are  supposed  to  swim  on  the 
surface  of  things  and  catch  all  the  high  lights  of 
existence,  like  bubbles,  and  in  another  sense  it  had 
been  very  much  the  reverse.  She  might,  so  far  as  one 
side  of  her  character  was  concerned,  have  been  born 
and  brought  up  in  East  Westland,  as  her  mother  had 
been  before  her.  She  had  a  perfect  village  simplicity 
and  wonder  at  life,  as  to  a  part  of  her  innermost 
self,  which  was  only  veneered  by  her  contact  with  the 
world.  In  part  she  was  entirely  different  from  all 
the  girls  in  the  place,  and  the  difference  was  really  in 
the  grain.  That  had  come  from  her  assimilation  at 
a  very  tender  age  with  the  people  who  had  had  the 
care  of  her.  They  had  belonged  by  right  of  birth 
with  the  most  brilliant  social  lights,  but  lack  of  money 
had  hampered  them.  They  blazed,  as  it  were,  under 
ground  glass  with  very  small  candle-powers,  although 
they  were  on  the  same  shelf  with  the  brilliant  incan- 
descents.  Rose's  money  had  been  the  main  factor 
which  enabled  them  to  blaze  at  all.  Otherwise  they 
might  have  still  remained  on  the  shelf,  it  is  true,  but 
as  dark  stars. 

Rose  had  not  been  sent  away  to  school  for  two 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

reasons.  One  reason  was  Miss  Farrel's,  the  other  orig 
inated  with  her  caretakers.  Miss  Parrel  had  a  jeal 
ous  dread  of  the  girl's  forming  one  of  those  erotic 
friendships,  which  are  really  diseased  love-affairs, 
with  another  girl  or  a  teacher,  and  the  Wiltons'  reason 
was  a  pecuniary  one.  Among  the  Wiltons'  few  as 
sets  was  a  distant  female  relative  of  pronounced  ac 
complishments  and  educational  attainments,  who 
was  even  worse  off  financially  than  they.  It  had 
become  with  her  a  question  of  bread-and-butter  and 
the  simplest  necessaries  of  life,  whereas  Mrs.  Wilton 
and  her  sister,  Miss  Pamela,  still  owned  the  old  family 
mansion,  which,  although  reduced  from  its  former 
heights  of  fashion,  was  grand,  with  a  subdued  and 
dim  grandeur,  it  is  true,  but  still  grand;  and  there  was 
also  a  fine  old  country-house  in  a  fashionable  summer 
resort.  There  were  also  old  servants  and  jewels 
and  laces  and  all  that  had  been.  The  difficulty  was 
in  retaining  it  with  the  addition  of  repairs,  and  addi 
tions  which  are  as  essential  to  the  mere  existence  of 
inanimate  objects  as  food  is  to  the  animate,  these 
being  as  their  law  of  growth.  Rose  Fletcher's  advent, 
although  her  fortune  was,  after  all,  only  a  moderate 
one,  permitted  such  homely  but  necessary  things  as 
shingles  to  be  kept  intact  upon  roofs  of  old  family 
homes;  it  enabled  servants  to  be  paid  and  fuel  and 
food  to  be  provided.  Still,  after  all,  had  poor  Eliza 
Parrel,  that  morbid  victim  of  her  own  hunger  for 
love,  known  what  economies  were  practised  at  her 
expense,  in  order  that  all  this  should  be  main 
tained,  she  would  have  rebelled.  She  knew  that 
the  impecunious  female  relative  was  a  person  fully 
adequate  to  educate  Rose,  but  she  did  not  know  that 

158 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

her  only  stipend  therefor  was  her  bread-and-butter 
and  the  cast-off  raiment  of  Mrs.  Wilton  and  Miss 
Pamela.  She  did  not  know  that  when  Rose  came 
out  her  stock  of  party  gowns  was  so  limited  that  she 
had  to  refuse  many  invitations  or  appear  always  as 
the  same  flower,  as  far  as  garments  were  concerned. 
She  did  not  know  that  during  Rose's  two  trips  abroad 
the  expenses  had  been  so  carefully  calculated  that 
the  girl  had  not  received  those  advantages  usually 
supposed  to  be  derived  from  foreign  travel. 

While  Mrs.  Wilton  and  Miss  Pamela  would  have 
scorned  the  imputation  of  deceit  or  dishonesty,  their 
moral  sense  in  those  two  directions  wras  blunted  by 
their  keen  scent  for  the  conventionalities  of  life,  which 
to  them  had  almost  become  a  religion.  They  had 
never  owned  to  their  inmost  consciousness  that  Rose 
had  not  derived  the  fullest  benefit  from  Miss  Parrel's 
money;  it  is  doubtful  if  they  really  were  capable  of 
knowing  it.  When  a  party  gown  for  Rose  was 
weighed  in  the  balance  with  some  essential  for  main 
taining  their  position  upon  the  society  shelf,  it  had 
not  the  value  of  a  feather.  Mrs.  Wilton  and  Miss 
Pamela  gave  regular  dinner-parties  and  receptions 
through  the  season,  but  they  invited  people  of  un 
doubted  social  standing  whom  Miss  Parrel  would 
have  neglected  for  others  on  Rose's  account.  By  a 
tacit  agreement,  never  voiced  in  words,  young  men 
or  old  who  might  have  made  too  heavy  drains  upon 
wines  and  viands  were  seldom  invited.  The  pref 
erence  was  for  dyspeptic  clergymen  and  elderly  and 
genteel  females  with  slender  appetites,  or  stout  people 
upon  diets.  It  was  almost  inconceivable  how  Mrs. 
Wilton  and  Miss  Pamela,  with  no  actual  consultations 

159 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

to  that  end,  practised  economies  and  maintained 
luxuries.  They  seemed  to  move  with  a  spiritual  unity 
like  the  physical  one  of  the  Siamese  twins.  Meagre 
meals  served  magnificently,  the  most  splendid  con 
servatism  with  the  smallest  possible  amount  of  com 
fort,  moved  them  as  one. 

Rose,  having  been  so  young  when  she  went  to 
live  with  them,  had  never  realized  the  true  state  of 
affairs.  Mrs.  Wilton  and  Miss  Pamela  had  not  en 
couraged  her  making  visits  in  houses  where  her  eyes 
might  have  been  opened.  Then,  too,  she  was  nat 
urally  generous,  and  not  sharp-eyed  concerning  her 
own  needs.  When  there  were  no  guests  at  dinner, 
and  she  rose  from  the  table  rather  unsatisfied  after 
her  half-plate  of  watery  soup,  her  delicate  little  be- 
f rilled  chop  and  dab  of  French  pease,  her  tiny  salad 
and  spoonful  of  dessert,  she  never  imagined  that  she 
was  defrauded.  Rose  had  a  singularly  sweet,  un- 
grasping  disposition,  and  an  almost  childlike  trait  of 
accepting  that  which  was  offered  her  as  the  one  and 
only  thing  which  she  deserved.  When  there  was  a 
dinner-party,  she  sat  between  an  elderly  clergyman 
and  a  stout  judge,  who  was  dieting  on  account  of  the 
danger  of  apoplexy,  with  the  same  graceful  agreeable- 
ness  with  which  she  would  have  sat  between  two  young 
men. 

Rose  had  not  developed  early  as  to  her  tempera 
ment.  She  had  played  with  dolls  until  Miss  Pamela 
had  felt  it  her  duty  to  remonstrate.  She  had  charmed 
the  young  men  whom  she  had  seen,  and  had  not 
thought  about  them  when  once  they  were  out  of 
sight.  Her  pulses  did  not  quicken  easily.  She  had 
imagination,  but  she  did  not  make  herself  the  heroine 

1 60 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

of  her  dreams.  She  was  sincerely  puzzled  at  the 
expression  which  she  saw  on  the  faces  of  some  girls 
when  talking  with  young  men.  She  felt  a  vague 
shame  and  anger  because  of  it,  but  she  did  not  know 
what  it  meant.  She  had  read  novels,  but  the  love 
interest  in  them  was  like  a  musical  theme  which  she, 
hearing,  did  not  fully  understand.  She  was  not  in 
the  least  a  boylike  girl;  she  was  wholly  feminine,  but 
the  feminine  element  was  held  in  delicate  and  gentle 
restraint.  Without  doubt  Mrs.  Wilton's  old-fashioned 
gentility,  and  Miss  Pamela's,  and  her  governess's,  who 
belonged  to  the  same  epoch,  had  served  to  mould 
her  character  not  altogether  undesirably.  She  was, 
on  the  whole,  a  pleasant  and  surprising  contrast  to 
girls  of  her  age,  with  her  pretty,  shy  respect  for  her 
elders,  and  lack  of  self-assertion,  along  with  entire 
self  -  possession  and  good  breeding.  However,  she 
had  missed  many  things  which  poor  Miss  Farrel  had 
considered  desirable  for  her,  and  which  her  hostesses 
with  their  self-sanctified  evasion  had  led  her  to  think 
had  been  done. 

Miss  Farrel,  teaching  in  her  country  school,  had 
had  visions  of  the  girl  riding  a  thoroughbred  in 
Central  Park,  with  a  groom  in  attendance;  whereas 
the  reality  was  the  old  man  who  served  both  as 
coachman  and  butler,  in  carefully  kept  livery,  guid 
ing  two  horses  apt  to  stumble  from  extreme  age 
through  the  shopping  district,  and  the  pretty  face 
of  the  girl  looking  out  of  the  window  of  an  ancient 
coupe  which,  nevertheless,  had  a  coat  of  arms  upon 
its  door.  Miss  Farrel  imagined  Rose  in  a  brilliant 
house  -  party  at  Wiltmere,  Mrs.  Wilton's  and  Miss 
Pamela's  country  home;  whereas  in  reality  she  was 

161 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

roaming  about  the  fields  and  woods  with  an  old  bull- 
terrier  for  guard  and  companion.  Rose  generally 
carried  a  book  on  these  occasions,  and  generally  not 
a  modern  book.  Her  governess  had  a  terror  of 
modern  books,  especially  of  novels.  She  had  looked 
into  a  few  and  shuddered.  Rose's  taste  in  literature 
was  almost  Elizabethan.  She  was  not  allowed,  of 
course,  to  glance  at  early  English  novels,  which  her 
governess  classed  with  late  English  and  American  in 
point  of  morality,  but  no  poetry  except  Byron  was 
prohibited. 

Rose  loved  to  sit  under  a  tree  with  the  dog  in  a 
white  coil  beside  her,  and  hold  her  book  open  on  her 
lap  and  read  a  word  now  and  then,  and  amuse  her 
self  with  fancies  the  rest  of  the  time.  She  grew  in 
those  days  of  her  early  girlhood  to  have  firm  belief 
in  those  things  which  she  never  saw  nor  heard,  and 
the  belief  had  not  wholly  deserted  her.  She  never 
saw  a  wood-nymph  stretch  out  a  white  arm  from  a 
tree,  but  she  believed  in  the  possibility  of  it,  and  the 
belief  gave  her  a  curious  delight.  When  she  returned 
to  the  house  for  her  scanty,  elegantly  served  dinner 
with  the  three  elder  ladies,  her  eyes  would  be  misty 
with  these  fancies  and  her  mouth  would  wear  the 
inscrutable  smile  of  a  baby's  at  the  charm  of  them. 

When  she  first  came  to  East  Westland  she  was  a 
profound  mystery  to  Horace,  who  had  only  known 
well  two  distinct  types  of  girls — the  purely  provincial 
and  her  reverse.  Rose,  with  her  mixture  of  the  two, 
puzzled  him.  While  she  was  not  in  the  least  shy,  she 
had  a  reserve  which  caused  her  to  remain  a  secret  to 
him  for  some  time.  Rose's  inner  life  was  to  her 
something  sacred,  not  to  be  lightly  revealed.  At 

162 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

last,  through  occasional  remarks  and  opinions,  light 
began  to  shine  through.  He  had  begun  to  under 
stand  her  the  Sunday  he  had  followed  her  to  Lucy 
Ayres's.  He  had,  also,  more  than  begun  to  love 
her.  Horace  Allen  would  not  have  loved  her  so 
soon  had  she  been  more  visible  as  to  her  inner  self. 
Things  on  the  surface  rarely  interested  him  very 
much.  He  had  not  an  easily  aroused  temperament, 
and  a  veil  which  stimulated  his  imagination  and 
aroused  his  searching  instinct  was  really  essential  if 
he  were  to  fall  in  love.  He  had  fallen  in  love  before, 
he  had  supposed,  although  he  had  never  asked  one 
of  the  fair  ones  to  marry  him.  Now  he  began  to  call 
up  various  faces  and  wonder  if  this  were  not  the  first 
time.  All  the  faces  seemed  to  dim  before  this  present 
one.  He  realized  something  in  her  very  dear  and 
precious,  and  for  the  first  time  he  felt  as  if  he  could 
not  forego  possession.  Hitherto  it  had  been  easy 
enough  to  bear  the  slight  wrench  of  leaving  tempta 
tion  and  moving  his  tent.  Here  it  was  different. 
Still,  the  old  objection  remained.  How  could  he 
marry  upon  his  slight  salary? 

The  high-school  in  East  Westland  was  an  endowed 
institution.  The  principal  received  twelve  hundred 
a  year.  People  in  the  village  considered  that  a 
prodigious  income.  Horace,  of  course,  knew  better. 
He  did  not  think  that  sum  sufficient  to  risk  matri 
mony.  Here,  too,  he  was  hampered  by  another  con 
sideration.  It  was  intolerable  for  him  to  think  of 
Rose's  wealth  and  his  paltry  twelve  hundred  per 
year.  An  ambition  which  had  always  slumbered  with 
in  his  mind  awoke  to  full  strength  and  activity.  He 
began  to  sit  up  late  at  night  and  write  articles  for 

163 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

the  papers  and  magazines.  He  had  got  one  accepted, 
and  received  a  check  which  to  his  inexperience  seem 
ed  promisingly  large.  In  spite  of  all  his  anxiety  he 
was  exalted.  He  began  to  wonder  if  circumstances 
would  not  soon  justify  him  in  reaching  out  for  the 
sweet  he  coveted.  He  made  up  his  mind  not  to  be 
precipitate,  to  wait  until  he  was  sure,  but  his  im 
patience  had  waxed  during  the  last  few  hours,  ever 
since  that  delicious  note  of  stilted,  even  cold,  praise 
and  that  check  had  arrived.  When  Rose  had  started 
to  go  up-stairs  he  had  not  been  able  to  avoid  fol 
lowing  her  into  the  hall.  The  door  of  the  parlor 
stood  open,  and  the  whole  room  was  full  of  the  soft 
shimmer  of  moonlight.  It  looked  like  a  bower  of  ro 
mance.  It  seemed  full  of  soft  and  holy  and  alluring 
mysteries.  Horace  looked  down  at  Rose,  Rose  looked 
up  at  him.  Her  eyes  fell;  she  trembled  deliciously. 

"It  is  very  early,"  he  said,  in  a  whispering  voice 
which  would  not  have  been  known  for  his.  It  had 
in  it  the  male  cadences  of  wooing  music. 

Rose  stood  still. 

"Let  us  go  in  there  a  little  while,"  whispered 
Horace.  Rose  followed  him  into  the  room;  he  gave 
the  door  a  little  push.  It  did  not  quite  close,  but 
nearly.  Horace  placed  a  chair  for  Rose  beside  a 
window  into  which  the  moon  was  shining;  then  he 
drew  up  one  beside  it,  but  not  very  close.  He  neither 
dared  nor  was  sure  that  he  desired.  Alone  with  the 
girl  in  this  moonlit  room,  an  awe  crept  over  him. 
She  looked  away  from  him  out  of  the  window,  and  he 
saw  that  this  same  awe  was  over  her  also.  All  their 
young  pulses  were  thrilling,  but  this  awe  which  was 
of  the  spirit  held  them  in  check.  Rose,  with  the  full 

164 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

white  moonlight  shining  upon  her  face,  gained  an 
ethereal  beauty  which  gave  her  an  adorable  aloofness. 
The  young  man  seemed  to  see  her  through  the  vista 
of  all  his  young  dreams.  She  was  the  goddess  before 
which  his  soul  knelt  at  a  distance.  He  thought  he 
had  never  seen  anything  half  so  lovely  as  she  was  in 
that  white  light,  which  seemed  to  crown  her  with  a 
frosty  radiance  like  a  nimbus.  Her  very  expression  was 
changed.  She  was  smiling,  but  there  was  something 
a  little  grave  and  stern  about  her  smile.  Her  eyes, 
fixed  upon  the  clear  crystal  of  the  moon  sailing  through 
the  night  blue,  were  full  of  visions.  It  did  not  seem 
possible  to  him  that  she  could  be  thinking  of  him  at 
all,  this  beautiful  creature  with  her  pure  regard  of  the 
holy  mystery  of  the  nightly  sky;  but  in  reality  Rose, 
being  the  more  emotional  of  the  two,  and  also,  since 
she  was  not  the  one  to  advance,  the  more  daring, 
began  to  tremble  with  impatience  for  his  closer  con 
tact,  for  the  touch  of  his  hand  upon  hers. 

She  would  have  died  before  she  would  have  made 
the  first  advance,  but  it  filled  her  as  with  secret  fire. 
Finally  a  sort  of  anger  possessed  her,  anger  at  herself 
and  at  Horace.  She  became  horribly  ashamed  of 
herself,  and  angry  at  him  because  of  the  shame. 
She  gazed  out  at  the  wonderful  masses  of  shadows 
which  the  trees  made,  and  she  gazed  up  again  at  the 
sky  and  that  floating  crystal,  and  it  seemed  im 
possible  that  it  was  within  her  as  it  was.  Her  clear 
face  was  as  calm  as  marble,  her  expression  as  im 
movable,  her  gaze  as  direct.  It  seemed  as  if  a  man 
must  be  a  part  of  the  wonderful  mystery  of  the 
moonlit  night  to  come  within  her  scope  of  vision  at 
all. 

165 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Rose  chilled,  when  she  did  not  mean  to  do  so,  by 
sheer  maidenliness.  Horace,  gazing  at  her  calm  face, 
felt  in  some  way  rebuked.  He  had  led  a  decent  sort 
of  life,  but  after  all  he  was  a  man,  and  what  right  had 
he  to  even  think  of  a  creature  like  that  ?  He  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  removing  himself  farther  from  her, 
and  he  also  gazed  at  the  moon.  That  mysterious 
thing  of  silver  light  and  shadows,  which  had  illumined 
all  the  ages  of  creation  by  their  own  reflected  light, 
until  it  had  come  to  be  a  mirror  of  creation  itself, 
seemed  to  give  him  a  sort  of  chill  of  the  flesh.  After 
all,  what  was  everything  in  life  but  a  repetition  of 
that  which  had  been  and  a  certainty  of  death? 
Rose  looked  like  a  ghost  to  his  fancy.  He  seemed 
like  a  ghost  to  himself,  and  felt  reproached  for  the 
hot  ardor  surging  in  his  fleshly  heart. 

"That  same  moon  lit  the  world  for  the  builders  of 
the  Pyramids,"  he  said,  tritely  enough. 

"Yes,"  murmured  Rose,  in  a  faint  voice.  The 
Pyramids  chilled  her.  So  they  were  what  he  had 
been  thinking  about,  and  not  herself. 

Horace  went  on.  "It  shone  upon  all  those  ancient 
battle-fields  of  the  Old  Testament,  and  the  children 
of  Israel  in  their  exile,"  he  said. 

Rose  looked  at  him.  "It  shone  upon  the  Garden 
of  Eden  after  Adam  had  so  longed  for  Eve  that  she 
grew  out  of  his  longing  and  became  something  sep 
arate  from  himself,  so  that  he  could  see  her  without 
seeing  himself  all  the  time;  and  it  shone  upon  the 
garden  in  Solomon's  Song,  and  the  roses  of  Sharon, 
and  the  lilies  of  the  valley,  and  the  land  flowing  with 
milk  and  honey,"  said  she,  in  a  childish  tone  of  levity 
which  had  an  undercurrent  of  earnestness  in  it.  All 

166 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

her  emotional  nature  and  her  pride  arose  against 
Pyramids  and  Old  Testament  battle-fields,  when  she 
had  only  been  conscious  that  the  moon  shone  upon 
Horace  and  herself.  She  was  shamed  and  angry  as 
she  had  never  been  shamed  and  angry  before. 

Horace  leaned  forward  and  gazed  eagerly  at  her. 
After  all,  was  he  mistaken?  He  was  shrewd  enough, 
although  he  did  not  understand  the  moods  of  women 
very  well,  and  it  did  seem  to  him  that  there  was 
something  distinctly  encouraging  in  her  tone.  Just 
then  the  night  wind  came  in  strongly  at  the  window 
beside  which  they  were  sitting.  An  ardent  fra 
grance  of  dewy  earth  and  plants  smote  them  in  the 
face. 

"Do  you  feel  the  draught?"  asked  Horace. 

"I  like  it." 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  catch  cold." 

"I  don't  catch  cold  at  all  easily." 

"The  wind  is  very  damp,"  argued  Horace,  with  in 
creasing  confidence.  He  grew  very  bold.  He  seized 
upon  one  of  her  little  white  hands.  "I  won't  believe 
it  unless  I  can  feel  for  myself  that  your  hands  are  not 
cold,"  said  he.  He  felt  the  little  soft  fingers  curl 
around  his  hand  with  the  involuntary,  pristine  force 
of  a  baby's.  His  heart  beat  tumultuously. 

"Oh — "he  began.  Then  he  stopped  suddenly  as 
Rose  snatched  her  hand  away  and  again  gazed  at 
the  moon. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  night,"  she  remarked,  and  the 
harmless  deceit  of  woman,  which  is  her  natural  wea 
pon,  was  in  her  voice  and  manner. 

Horace  was  more  obtuse.  He  remained  leaning 
eagerly  towards  the  girl.  He  extended  his  hand 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

again,  but  she  repeated,  in  her  soft,  deceitful  voice, 
"Yes,  a  perfectly  beautiful  night." 

Then  he  observed  Sylvia  Whitman  standing  be 
side  them.  "It  is  a  nice  night  enough,"  said  she, 
"but  you'll  both  catch  your  deaths  of  cold  at  this 
open  window.  The  wind  is  blowing  right  in  on  you." 

She  made  a  motion  to  close  it,  stepping  between 
Rose  and  Horace,  but  the  young  man  sprang  to  his 
feet.  "Let  me  close  it,  Mrs.  Whitman,"  said  he,  and 
did  so. 

"It  ain't  late  enough  in  the  season  to  set  right  be 
side  an  open  window  and  let  the  wind  blow  in  on 
you,"  said  Sylvia,  severely.  She  drew  up  a  rocking- 
chair  and  sat  down.  She  formed  the  stern  apex  of  a 
triangle  of  which  Horace  and  Rose  were  the  base. 
She  leaned  back  and  rocked. 

"It  is  a  pleasant  night,"  said  she,  as  if  answering 
Rose's  remark,  "but  to  me  there's  always  something 
sort  of  sad  about  moonlight  nights.  They  make  you 
think  of  times  and  people  that's  gone.  I  dare  say  it 
is  different  with  you  young  folks.  I  guess  I  used  to 
feel  different  about  moonlight  nights  years  ago.  I 
remember  when  Mr.  Whitman  and  I  were  first  mar 
ried,  we  used  to  like  to  set  out  on  the  front  door-step 
and  look  at  the  moon,  and  make  plans." 

"Don't  you  ever  now?"  asked  Rose. 

"Now  we  go  to  bed  and  to  sleep,"  replied  Sylvia, 
decisively.  There  was  a  silence.  "I  guess  it's  pretty 
late,"  said  Sylvia,  in  a  meaning  tone.  "What  time 
is  it,  Mr.  Allen?" 

Horace  consulted  his  watch.  "It  is  not  very  late," 
said  he.  It  did  not  seem  to  him  that  Mrs.  Whitman 
could  stay. 

1 63 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"It  can't  be  very  late,"  said  Rose. 

"What  time  is  it?"  asked  Sylvia,  relentlessly. 

"About  half -past  ten,"  replied  Horace,  with  re 
luctance. 

"I  call  that  very  late,"  said  Sylvia.  "It  is  late 
for  Rose,  anyway." 

"I  don't  feel  at  all  tired,"  said  Rose. 

"You  must  be,"  said  Sylvia.  "You  can't  always 
go  by  feelings." 

She  swayed  pitilessly  back  and  forth  in  her  rock 
ing-chair.  Horace  waited  in  an  agony  of  impatience 
for  her  to  leave  them,  but  she  had  no  intention  of 
doing  so.  She  rocked.  Now  and  then  she  made 
some  maddening  little  remark  which  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  situation.  Then  she  rocked 
again.  Finally  she  triumphed.  Rose  stood  up.  "I 
think  it  is  getting  rather  late,"  said  she. 

"  It  is  very  late,"  agreed  Sylvia,  also  rising.  Horace 
rose.  There  was  a  slight  pause.  It  seemed  even  then 
that  Sylvia  might  take  pity  upon  them  and  leave 
them.  But  she  stood  like  a  rock.  It  was  quite  evi 
dent  that  she  would  settle  again  into  her  rocking- 
chair  at  the  slightest  indication  which  the  two  young 
people  made  of  a  disposition  to  remain. 

Rose  gave  a  fluttering  little  sigh.  She  extended 
her  hand  to  Horace.  "Good-night,  Mr.  Allen,"  she 
said. 

"Good-night,"  returned  Horace.  "Good-night, 
Mrs.  Whitman." 

"It  is  time  you  went  to  bed,  too,"  said  Sylvia. 

"I  think  I'll  go  in  and  have  a  smoke  with  Mr- 
Whitman  first,"  said  Horace. 

"He's  going  to  bed,  too,"  said  Sylvia.  "He's  tired. 
12  169 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Good-night,  Mr.  Allen.  If  you  open  that  window 
again,  you'll  be  sure  and  shut  it  down  before  you  go 
up-stairs,  won't  you?" 

Horace  promised  that  he  would.  Sylvia  went  with 
Rose  into  her  room  to  unfasten  her  gown.  A  lamp 
was  burning  on  the  dressing- table.  Rose  kept  her 
back  turned  towards  the  light.  Her  pretty  face  was 
flushed  and  she  was  almost  in  tears.  Sylvia  hung 
the  girl's  gown  up  carefully,  then  she  looked  at  her 
lovingly.  Unless  Rose  made  the  first  advance,  when 
Sylvia  would  submit  with  inward  rapture  but  out 
ward  stiffness,  there  never  were  good-night  kisses 
exchanged  between  the  two. 

"You  look  all  tired  out,"  said  Sylvia. 

"I  am  not  at  all  tired,"  said  Rose.  She  was  all 
quivering  with  impatience,  but  her  voice  was  sweet 
and  docile.  She  put  up  her  face  for  Sylvia  to  kiss. 
" Good-night,  dear  Aunt  Sylvia,"  said  she. 

"Good -night,"  said  Sylvia.  Rose  felt  merely  a 
soft  touch  of  thin,  tightly  closed  lips.  Sylvia  did  not 
know  how  to  kiss,  but  she  was  glowing  with  delight. 

When  she  joined  Henry  in  their  bedroom  down 
stairs  he  looked  at  her  in  some  disapproval.  "I 
don't  think  you'd  ought  to  have  gone  in  there,"  he 
said. 

"Why  not?" 

"Why,  you  must  expect  young  folks  to  be  young 
folks,  and  it  was  only  natural  for  them  to  want  to 
set  there  in  the  moonlight." 

"They  can  set  in  there  in  the  moonlight  if  they 
want  to,"  said  Sylvia.  "I  didn't  hinder  them." 

"I  think  they  wanted  to  be  alone." 

"When  they  set  in  the  moonlight,  I'm  going  to  set, 
170 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

too,"  said  Sylvia.  She  slipped  off  her  gown  carefully 
over  her  head.  When  the  head  emerged  Henry  saw 
that  it  was  carried  high  with  the  same  rigidity  which 
had  lately  puzzled  him,  and  that  her  face  had  that 
same  expression  of  stern  isolation. 

"Sylvia,"  said  Henry. 

"Well?" 

"Does  anything  worry  you  lately?" 

Sylvia  looked  at  him  with  sharp  suspicion.  "I'd 
like  to  know  why  you  should  think  anything  worries 
me,"  she  said,  "as  comfortable  as  we  are  off  now." 

"Sylvia,  have  you  got  anything  on  your  mind?" 

"I  don't  want  to  see  young  folks  making  fools  of 
themselves,"  said  Sylvia,  shortly,  and  her  voice  had 
the  same  tone  of  deceit  which  Rose  had  used  when  she 
spoke  of  the  beautiful  night. 

"That  ain't  it,"  said  Henry,  quietly. 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  know,"  said  Sylvia,  "she's 
been  pestering  me  with  wanting  to  pay  board  if  she 
stays  along  here,  and  I've  put  my  foot  down;  she 
sha'n't  pay  a  cent." 

"Of  course  we  can't  let  her,"  agreed  Henry.  Then 
he  added,  "This  was  all  her  own  aunt's  property, 
anyway,  and  if  there  hadn't  been  a  will  it  would  have 
come  to  her." 

"There  was  a  will,"  said  Sylvia,  fastening  her 
cotton  night-gown  tightly  around  her  skinny  throat. 

"Of  course  she's  going  to  stay  as  long  as  she's  con 
tented,  and  she  ain't  going  to  pay  board,"  said  Henry; 
"but  that  ain't  the  trouble.  Have  you  got  any 
thing  on  your  mind,  Sylvia?" 

"I  hope  so,"  replied  Sylvia,  sharply.  "I  hope  I've 
got  a  little  something  on  my  mind.  I  ain't  a  fool." 

171 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Henry  said  no  more.  Neither  he  nor  Sylvia  went 
to  sleep  at  once.  The  moon's  pale  influence  lit  their 
room  and  seemed  disturbing  in  itself.  Presently 
they  both  smelled  cigar  smoke. 

44 He's  smoking,"  said  Sylvia.  "Well,  nothing 
makes  much  difference  to  you  men,  as  long  as  you 
can  smoke.  I'd  like  to  know  what  you'd  do  in  my 
place." 

"  Have  you  got  anything  on  your  mind,  Sylvia  ?" 

" Didn't  I  say  I  hoped  I  had?  Everybody  has 
something  on  her  mind,  unless  she's  a  tarnation  fool, 
and  I  ain't  never  set  up  for  one." 

Henry  did  not  speak  again. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  next  morning  at  breakfast  Rose  announced 
her  intention  of  going  to  see  if  Lucy  Ayres  would 
not  go  to  drive  with  her. 

"There's  one  very  nice  little  horse  at  the  livery- 
stable,"  said  she,  "and  I  can  drive.  It  is  a  beauti 
ful  morning,  and  poor  Lucy  did  not  look  very  well 
yesterday,  and  I  think  it  will  do  her  good." 

Horace  turned  white.  Henry  noticed  it.  Sylvia, 
who  was  serving  something,  did  not.  Henry  had 
thought  he  had  arrived  at  a  knowledge  of  Horace's 
suspicions,  which  in  themselves  seemed  to  him  per 
fectly  groundless,  and  now  that  he  had,  as  he  sup 
posed,  proved  them  to  be  so,  he  was  profoundly  puz 
zled.  Before  he  had  gone  to  Horace's  assistance. 
Now  he  did  not  see  his  way  clear  towards  doing  so, 
and  saw  no  necessity  for  it.  He  ate  his  breakfast 
meditatively.  Horace  pushed  away  his  plate  and  rose. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  asked  Sylvia.  "Don't 
you  feel  well,  Mr.  Allen?" 

"Perfectly  well;    never  felt  better." 

"You  haven't  eaten  enough  to  keep  a  sparrow 
alive." 

"I  have  eaten  fast,"  said  Horace.  "I  have  to 
make  an  early  start  this  morning.  I  have  some  work 
to  do  before  school." 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Rose  apparently  paid  no  attention.  She  went  on 
with  her  plans  for  her  drive. 

"Are  you  sure  you  know  how  to  manage  a  horse?'' 
said  Sylvia,  anxiously.  "I  used  to  drive,  but  I  can't 
go  with  you  because  the  washerwoman  is  coming." 

"Of  course  I  can  drive,"  said  Rose.  "I  love  to 
drive.  And  I  don't  believe  there's  a  horse  in  the 
stable  that  would  get  out  of  a  walk,  anyway." 

"You  won't  try  to  pass  by  any  steam-rollers,  and 
you'll  look  out  for  automobiles,  won't  you?"  said 
Sylvia. 

Horace  left  them  talking  and  set  out  hurriedly. 
When  he  reached  the  Ayres  house  he  entered  the  gate, 
passed  between  the  flowering  shrubs  which  bordered 
the  gravel  walk,  and  rang  the  bell  with  vigor.  He 
was  desperate.  Lucy  herself  opened  the  door.  When 
she  saw  Horace  she  turned  red,  then  white.  She 
was  dressed  neatly  in  a  little  blue  cotton  wrapper, 
and  her  pretty  hair  was  arranged  as  usual,  with  the 
exception  of  one  tiny  curl-paper  on  her  forehead. 
Lucy's  hand  went  nervously  to  this  curl-paper. 

"Oh,  good-morning!"  she  said,  breathlessly,  as  if 
she  had  been  running. 

Horace  returned  her  greeting  gravely.  "Can  I 
see  you  a  few  moments,  Miss  Lucy?"  he  said. 

A  wild  light  came  into  the  girl's  eyes.  Her  cheeks 
flushed  again.  Again  she  spoke  in  her  nervous,  pant 
ing  voice,  and  asked  him  in.  She  led  the  way  into 
the  parlor  and  excused  herself  flutteringly.  She  was 
back  in  a  few  moments.  Instead  of  the  curl-paper 
there  was  a  little,  soft,  dark,  curly  lock  on  her  fore 
head.  She  had  also  fastened  the  neck  of  her  wrapper 
with  a  gold  brooch.  The  wrapper  sloped  well  from 

174 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

her  shoulders  and  displayed  a  lovely  V  of  white  neck. 
She  sat  down  opposite  Horace,  and  the  simple  gar 
ment  adjusted  itself  to  her  slim  figure,  revealing  its 
tender  outlines. 

Lucy  looked  at  Horace,  and  her  expression  was 
tragic,  foolish,  and  of  almost  revolting  wistfulness. 
She  was  youth  and  womanhood  in  its  most  helpless 
and  pathetic  revelation.  Poor  Lucy  could  not  help 
herself.  She  was  a  thing  always  devoured  and  never 
consumed  by  a  flame  of  nature,  because  of  the  lack 
of  food  to  satisfy  an  inborn  hunger. 

Horace  felt  all  this  perfectly  in  an  analytical  way. 
He  sympathized  in  an  analytical  way,  but  in  other 
respects  he  felt  that  curious  resentment  and  out 
rage  of  which  a  man  is  capable  and  which  is  fiercer 
than  outraged  maidenliness.  For  a  man  to  be  be 
loved  when  his  own  heart  does  not  respond  is  not 
pleasant.  He  cannot  defend  himself,  nor  even  rec 
ognize  facts,  without  being  lowered  in  his  own  self- 
esteem.  Horace  had  done,  as  far  as  he  could  judge, 
absolutely  nothing  whatever  to  cause  this  state  of 
mind  in  Lucy.  He  was  self-exonerated  as  to  that,  but 
the  miserable  reason  for  it  all,  in  his  mere  existence 
as  a  male  of  his  species,  filled  him  with  shame  for 
himself  and  her,  and  also  with  anger. 

He  strove  to  hold  to  pity,  but  anger  got  the  better 
of  him.  Anger  and  shame  coupled  together  make  a 
balking  team.  Now  the  man  was  really  at  a  loss 
what  to  say.  Lucy  sat  before  him  with  her  expres 
sion  of  pitiable  self  -  revelation,  and  waited,  and 
Horace  sat  speechless.  Now  he  was  there,  he  won 
dered  what  he  had  been  such  an  ass  as  to  come  for. 
He  wrondered  what  he  had  ever  thought  he  could  say, 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

would  say.  Then  Rose's  face  shone  out  before  his 
eyes,  and  his  impulse  of  protection  made  him  firm. 
He  spoke  abruptly.  "Miss  Lucy — "  he  began.  Lucy 
cast  her  eyes  down  and  waited,  her  whole  attitude 
was  that  of  utter  passiveness  and  yielding.  "Good 
Lord!  She  thinks  I  have  come  here  at  eight  o'clock 
in  the  morning  to  propose!"  Horace  thought,  with  a 
sort  of  fury.  But  he  did  not  speak  again  at  once. 
He  actually  did  not  know  how  to  begin,  what  to  say. 
He  did  not,  finally,  say  anything.  He  rose.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  must  prevent  Rose  from  going 
to  drive  with  Lucy,  but  he  saw  no  way  of  doing  so. 

When  he  rose  it  was  as  if  Lucy's  face  of  foolish 
anticipation  of  joy  was  overclouded.  "You  are  not 
going  so  soon?"  she  stammered. 

"I  have  to  get  to  school  early  this  morning," 
Horace  said,  in  a  harsh  voice.  He  moved  towards 
the  door.  Lucy  also  had  risen.  She  now  looked 
altogether  tragic.  The  foolish  wistfulness  was  gone. 
Instead,  claws  seemed  to  bristle  all  over  her  tender 
surface.  Suddenly  Horace  realized  that  her  slender, 
wiry  body  was  pressed  against  his  own.  He  was 
conscious  of  her  soft  cheek  against  his.  He  felt  at 
once  in  the  grip  of  a  tiger  and  a  woman,  and  horribly 
helpless,  more  helpless  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his 
whole  life.  What  could  he  say  or  do?  Then  sud 
denly  the  parlor  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Ay  res,  Lucy's 
mother,  stood  there.  She  saw  with  her  stern,  melan 
choly  gaze  the  whole  situation. 

"Lucy!"  she  said. 

Lucy  started  away  from  Horace,  and  gazed  in  a 
sort  of  fear  and  wrath  at  her  mother. 

"Lucy,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres,  "go  up  to  your  own  room." 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Lucy  obeyed.  She  slunk  out  of  the  door  and  crept 
weakly  up-stairs.  Horace  and  Mrs.  Ayres  looked  at 
each  other.  There  was  a  look  of  doubt  in  the  wom 
an's  face.  For  the  first  time  she  was  not  altogether 
sure.  Perhaps  Lucy  had  been  right,  after  all,  in  her 
surmises.  Why  had  Horace  called?  She  finally 
went  straight  to  the  point. 

"What  did  you  come  for,  Mr.  Allen?"  said  she. 

Suddenly  Horace  thought  of  the  obvious  thing  to 
say,  the  explanation  to  give.  "Miss  Fletcher  is 
thinking  of  coming  later  to  take  Miss  Lucy  for  a 
drive,"  said  he. 

"And  you  called  to  tell  her?"  said  Mrs.  Ayres. 

Horace  looked  at  her.  Mrs.  Ayres  understood. 
' '  Miss  Fletcher  must  come  with  a  double-seated  car 
riage  so  that  I  can  go,"  said  she.  "My  daughter  is 
very  nervous  about  horses.  I  never  allow  her  to  go 
to  drive  without  me." 

She  observed,  with  a  sort  of  bitter  sympathy,  the 
look  of  relief  overspread  Horace's  face.  "I  will  send 
a  telephone  message  from  Mrs.  Steele's,  next  door,  so 
there  will  be  no  mistake,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Horace.  His  face  was 
burning. 

Mrs.  Ayres  went  on  with  a  melancholy  and  tragic 
calm.  "I  saw  what  I  saw  when  I  came  in,"  said  she. 
"I  have  only  to  inform  you  that — any  doubts  which 
you  may  have  entertained,  any  fears,  are  altogether 
groundless.  Everything  has  been  as  harmless  as — 
the  candy  you  ate  last  night." 

Horace  started  and  stared  at  her.  In  truth,  he 
had  lain  awake  until  a  late  hour  wondering  what 
might  be  going  to  happen  to  him. 

177 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  made  it,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres.  "I  attend  to  every 
thing.  I  have  attended  to  everything."  She  gazed 
at  him  with  a  strange,  pathetic  dignity.  "I  have  no 
apologies  nor  excuses  to  make  to  you,"  she  said. 
"I  have  only  this  to  say,  and  you  can  reflect  upon  it 
at  your  leisure.  Sometimes,  quite  often,  it  may 
happen  that  too  heavy  a  burden,  a  burden  which 
has  been  gathering  weight  since  the  first  of  creation, 
is  heaped  upon  too  slender  shoulders.  This  burden 
may  bend  innocence  into  guilt  and  modesty  into 
shamelessness,  but  there  is  no  more  reason  for  con 
demnation  than  in  a  case  of  typhoid  fever.  Any 
man  of  good  sense  and  common  Christianity  should 
take  that  view  of  it." 

"I  do,"  cried  Horace,  hurriedly.  He  looked 
longingly  at  the  door.  He  had  never  felt  so  shamed 
in  his  life,  and  never  so  angrily  sympathetic. 

"I  will  go  over  to  Mrs.  Steele's  and  telephone 
immediately,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres,  calmly.  "Good- 
morning,  Mr.  Allen." 

"Good -morning,"  said  Horace.  There  was  some 
thing  terrible  about  the  face  of  patient  defiance  which 
the  woman  lifted  to  his. 

"You  will  not — "  she  began. 

Horace  caught  her  thin  hand  and  pressed  it 
heartily.  "Good  God,  Mrs.  Ayres!"  he  stammered. 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  I  understand.  I  can  trust 
you,"  she  said.  "I  am  very  glad  it  happened  with 
you." 

Horace  was  relieved  to  be  out  in  the  open  air.  He 
felt  as  if  he  had  escaped  from  an  atmosphere  of  some 
terrible  emotional  miasma.  He  reflected  that  he  had 
heard  of  such  cases  as  poor  Lucy  Ayres,  but  he  had 

178 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

been  rather  incredulous.  He  walked  along  wonder 
ing  whether  it  was  a  psychological  or  physical  phe 
nomenon.  Pity  began  to  get  the  better  of  his  shame 
for  himself  and  the  girl.  The  mother's  tragic  face 
came  before  his  eyes.  "What  that  woman  must 
have  to  put  up  with!"  he  thought. 

When  he  had  commenced  the  morning  session  of 
school  he  found  himself  covertly  regarding  the 
young  girls.  He  wondered  if  such  cases  were  com 
mon.  If  they  were,  he  thought  to  himself  that  the 
man  who  threw  the  first  stone  was  the  first  criminal 
of  the  world.  He  realized  the  helplessness  of  the 
young  things  before  forces  of  nature  of  which  they 
were  brought  up  in  so  much  ignorance,  and  his  soul 
rebelled.  He  thought  to  himself  that  they  should 
be  armed  from  the  beginning  with  wisdom. 

He  was  relieved  that  at  first  he  saw  in  none  of  the 
girl-faces  before  him  anything  which  resembled  in 
the  slightest  degree  the  expression  which  he  had  seen 
in  Lucy  Ayres's.  These  girls,  most  of  them  belonging 
to  the  village  (there  were  a  few  from  outside,  for  this 
was  an  endowed  school,  ranking  rather  higher  than 
an  ordinary  institution),  revealed  in  their  faces  one 
of  three  interpretations  of  character.  Some  were  full 
of  young  mischief,  chafing  impatiently  at  the  fetters 
of  school  routine.  They  were  bubbling  over  with 
innocent  animal  life;  they  were  longing  to  be  afield 
at  golf  or  tennis.  They  hated  their  books. 

Some  were  frankly  coquettish  and  self-conscious, 
but  in  a  most  healthy  and  normal  fashion.  These 
frequently  adjusted  stray  locks  of  hair,  felt  of  their 
belts  at  their  backs  to  be  sure  that  the  fastenings 
were  intact,  then  straightened  themselves  with 

179 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

charming  little  feminine  motions.  Their  flowerlike 
faces  frequently  turned  towards  the  teacher,  and  there 
was  in  them  a  perfect  consciousness  of  the  facts  of  sex 
and  charm,  but  it  was  a  most  innocent,  even  child 
like  consciousness. 

The  last  type  belonged  to  those  intent  upon  their 
books,  soberly  adjusted  to  the  duties  of  life  already, 
with  little  imagination  or  emotion.  This  last  was 
in  the  minority. 

"Thank  God!"  Horace  thought,  as  his  eyes  met 
one  and  another  of  the  girl-faces.  "She  is  not,  can 
not  be,  a  common  type."  And  then  he  felt  something 
like  a  chill  of  horror  as  his  eyes  met  those  of  a  new 
pupil,  a  girl  from  Alford,  who  had  only  entered  the 
school  the  day  before.  She  was  not  well  dressed. 
There  was  nothing  coquettish  about  her,  but  in  her 
eyes  shone  the  awful,  unreasoning  hunger  which  he 
had  seen  before.  Upon  her  shoulders,  young  as  they 
were,  was  the  same  burden,  the  burden  as  old  as  crea 
tion,  which  she  was  required  to  bear  by  a  hard  destiny, 
perhaps  of  heredity.  There  was  something  horribly 
pathetic  in  the  girl's  shy,  beseeching,  foolish  gaze  at 
Horace.  She  was  younger  and  shyer  than  Lucy  and, 
although  not  so  pretty,  immeasurably  more  pathetic. 

"Another,"  thought  Horace.  It  was  a  great  relief 
to  him  when,  only  a  week  later,  this  girl  found  an 
admirer  in  one  of  the  schoolboys,  who,  led  by  some 
strange  fascination,  followed  her  instead  of  one  of  the 
prettier,  more  attractive  girls.  Then  the  girl  began 
to  look  more  normal.  She  dressed  more  carefully 
and  spent  more  time  in  arranging  her  hair.  After 
all,  she  was  very  young,  and  abnormal  instincts  may 
be  quieted  with  a  mere  sop  at  the  first. 

1 80 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

When  Horace  reached  home  that  day  of  the  drive 
he  found  that  Rose  had  returned.  Sylvia  said  that 
she  had  been  at  home  half  an  hour. 

"She  went  to  Alford,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  afraid 
she's  all  tired  out.  She  came  home  looking  as  white 
as  a  sheet.  She  said  she  didn't  want  any  dinner,  but 
finally  said  she  would  come  down." 

At  the  dinner- table  Rose  was  very  silent.  She  did 
not  look  at  Horace  at  all.  She  ate  almost  nothing. 
After  dinner  she  persisted  in  assisting  Sylvia  in 
clearing  away  the  table  and  washing  the  dishes.  Rose 
took  a  childish  delight  in  polishing  the  china  with 
her  dish-towel.  New  England  traits  seemed  to  awake 
within  her  in  this  New  England  home.  Sylvia  was 
using  the  willow  ware  now,  Rose  was  so  pleased  with 
it.  The  Calkin's  soap  ware  wras  packed  away  on  the 
top  shelf  of  the  pantry. 

"It  is  perfectly  impossible,  Aunt  Sylvia,"  Rose 
had  declared,  and  Sylvia  had  listened.  She  listened 
with  much  more  docility  than  at  first  to  the  decrees 
of  sophistication. 

"The  painting  ain't  nearly  as  natural,"  she  had 
said,  feebly,  regarding  the  moss  rosebuds  on  a  Calkin's 
soap  plate  with  fluctuating  admiration  which  caused 
her  pain  by  its  fluctuations. 

"Oh,  but,  Aunt  Sylvia,  to  think  of  comparing  for 
one  minute  ware  like  that  with  this  perfectly  wonder 
ful  old  willow  ware!"  Rose  had  said. 

"Well,  have  your  own  way,"  said  Sylvia,  with  a 
sigh.  "Maybe  I  can  get  used  to  everything  all  blue, 
when  it  ain't  blue,  after  awhile.  I  know  you  have 
been  around  more  than  I  have,  and  you  ought  to 
know." 

1*1 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

So  the  gold-and-white  ware  which  had  belonged  to 
Sylvia's  mother  decked  the  breakfast  -  table  and  the 
willow  ware  did  duty  for  the  rest  of  the  time.  "I 
think  it  is  very  much  better  that  you  have  no  maid,'* 
Rose  said.  "I  simply  would  not  trust  a  maid  to  care 
for  china  like  this." 

Rose  took  care  of  her  room  now,  and  very  daintily. 
"She'll  be  real  capable  after  awhile,"  Sylvia  told 
Henry. 

"I  didn't  know  as  she'd  be  contented  to  stay  at  all, 
we  live  so  different  from  the  way  she's  been  used  to," 
said  Henry. 

"It's  the  way  her  mother  was  brought  up,  and  the 
way  she  lived,  and  what's  in  the  blood  will  work  out," 
said  Sylvia.  "Then,  too,  I  guess  she  didn't  care  any 
too  much  about  those  folks  she  lived  with.  For  my 
part,  I  think  it's  the  queerest  thing  I  ever  heard  of 
that  Miss  Parrel,  if  she  took  such  a  notion  to  the 
child,  enough  to  do  so  much  for  her,  didn't  keep  her 
herself." 

"Miss  Parrel  was  a  queer  woman,"  said  Henry. 

"I  guess  she  wasn't  any  too  well  balanced,"  agreed 
Sylvia. 

"What  do  you  suppose  tired  Rose  out  so  much  this 
morning?"  asked  Henry.  "It  isn't  such  a  very  long 
ride  to  Alford." 

"I  don't  know.  She  looked  like  a  ghost  when  she 
got  home.  I'm  glad  she's  laying  down.  I  hope 
she'll  get  a  little  nap." 

That  was  after  dinner,  when  the  house  had  been 
set  in  order,  and  Sylvia  was  at  one  front  window  in 
the  cool  sitting-room,  with  a  basket  of  mending,  and 
Henry  at  another  with  a  library  book.  Henry  was 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

very  restless  in  these  days.  He  pottered  about  the 
place  and  was  planning  to  get  in  a  good  hay  crop, 
but  this  desultory  sort  of  employment  did  not  take 
the  place  of  his  regular  routine  of  toil.  He  missed 
it  horribly,  almost  as  a  man  is  said  to  miss  a  pain  of 
long  standing.  He  knew  that  he  was  better  off  with 
out  it,  that  he  ought  to  be  happier,  but  he  knew  that 
he  was  not. 

For  years  he  had  said  bitterly  that  he  had  no  op 
portunity  for  reading  and  improving  his  mind.  Now 
he  had  opportunity,  but  it  was  too  late.  He  could 
not  become  as  interested  in  a  book  as  he  had  been 
during  the  few  moments  he  had  been  able  to  snatch 
from  his  old  routine  of  toil.  Some  days  it  seemed  to 
Henry  that  he  must  go  back  to  the  shop,  that  he 
could  not  live  in  this  way.  He  had  begun  to  lose  all 
interest  in  what  he  had  anticipated  with  much  pleas 
ure — the  raising  of  grass  on  Abrahama  White's  cele 
brated  land.  He  felt  that  he  knew  nothing  about 
such  work,  that  agriculture  was  not  for  him.  If 
only  he  could  stand  again  at  his  bench  in  the  shop, 
and  cut  leather  into  regular  shapes,  he  felt  that 
while  his  hands  toiled  involuntarily  his  mind  could 
work.  Some  days  he  fairly  longed  so  for  the  old 
familiar  odor  of  tanned  hides,  that  odor  which  he 
had  once  thought  sickened  him,  that  he  would  go  to 
the  shop  and  stand  by  the  open  door,  and  inhale 
the  warm  rush  of  leather-scented  air  with  keen 
relish.  But  he  never  told  this  to  Sylvia. 

Henry  was  not  happy.  At  times  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  really  wished  that  he  and  Sylvia  had  never 
met  with  this  good-fortune.  Once  he  turned  on 
Sidney  Meeks  with  a  fierce  rejoinder,  when  Sidney 

183 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

had  repeated  the  sarcasm  which  he  loved  to  roll  be 
neath  his  tongue  like  a  honeyed  morsel,  that  if  he 
did  not  want  his  good-fortune  it  was  the  easiest  thing 
in  the  world  to  relinquish  it. 

"It  ain't,'*  said  Henry;  "and  what's  more,  you 
know  it  ain't.  Sylvia  don't  want  to  give  it  up,  and 
I  ain't  going  to  ask  her.  You  know  I  can't  get  rid 
of  it,  but  it's  true  what  I  say:  when  good  things  are 
so  long  coming  they  get  sour,  like  most  things  that 
are  kept  too  long.  What's  the  use  of  a  present  your 
hands  are  too  cramped  to  hold?" 

Sidney  looked  gravely  at  Henry,  who  had  aged 
considerably  during  the  last  few  weeks.  "Well,  I 
am  ready  to  admit,"  he  said,  "that  sometimes  the 
mills  of  the  gods  grind  so  slow  and  small  that  the 
relish  is  out  of  things  when  you  get  them.  I'm  will 
ing  to  admit  that  if  I  had  to-day  what  I  once  thought 
I  couldn't  live  without,  I'd  give  up  beat.  Once  I 
thought  I'd  like  to  have  the  biggest  law  practice  of 
any  lawyer  in  the  State.  If  I  had  it  now  I'd  be  ready 
to  throw  it  all  up.  It  would  come  too  late.  Now 
I'd  think  it  was  more  bother  than  it  was  worth. 
How'd  I  make  my  wines  and  get  any  comfort  out  of 
life  ?  Yes,  I  guess  it's  true,  Henry,  when  Providence 
is  overlong  in  giving  a  man  what  he  wants,  it  con 
trives  somehow  to  suck  the  sweetness  out  of  what 
he  gets,  though  he  may  not  know  it,  and  when  what 
he  thought  he  wanted  does  come  to  him  it  is  like  a 
bee  trying  to  make  honey  out  of  a  flower  that  doesn't 
hold  any.  Why  don't  you  go  back  to  the  shop, 
Henry,  and  have  done  with  it?" 

"Sylvia — "  began  Henry. 

But  Sidney  cut  in.  "If  you  haven't  found  out," 
184 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

said  he,  "that  in  the  long-run  doing  what  is  best  for 
yourself  is  doing  what's  best  for  the  people  who  love 
you  best,  you  haven't  found  out  much." 

"I  don't  know,"  Henry  said,  in  a  puzzled,  weary 
way.  "Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  I  can't  keep  on 
living  the  way  I  am  living,  and  live  at  all;  and  then 
I  don't  know." 

"I  know,"  said  Sidney.     "Get  back  to  your  tracks." 

"Sylvia  would  feel  all  cut  up  over  it.  She  wouldn't 
understand." 

"Of  course  she  wouldn't  understand,  but  women 
always  end  in  settling  down  to  things  they  don't 
understand,  when  they  get  it  through  their  heads  it's 
got  to  be,  and  being  just  as  contented,  unless  they're 
the  kind  who  fetch  up  in  lunatic  asylums,  and  Sylvia 
isn't  that  kind.  The  inevitable  may  be  a  hard  pill 
for  her  to  swallow,  but  it  will  never  stick  in  her 
throat." 

Henry  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  He  had  been 
thinking  it  over  since.  He  had  thought  of  it  a  good 
deal  after  dinner  that  day,  as  he  sat  with  the  unread 
book  in  his  lap.  Sylvia's  remarks  about  Rose  di 
verted  his  attention,  then  he  began  thinking  again. 
Sylvia  watched  him  furtively  as  she  sewed.  "You 
ain't  reading  that  book  at  all,"  she  said.  "I  have 
been  watching  you,  and  you  'ain't  turned  a  single 
page  since  I  spoke  last." 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should,"  returned  Henry.  "I 
don't  see  why  anybody  but  a  fool  should  ever  open 
the  book,  to  begin  with." 

"What  is  the  book?" 

Henry  looked  at  the  title-page.     "It  is  Whatever, 
by  Mrs.  Fane  Raymond,"  he  said,  absently. 
13  185 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I've  heard  it  was  a  beautiful  book." 

"Most  women  would  like  it,"  said  Henry.  "It 
seems  to  be  a  lot  written  about  a  fool  woman  that 
didn't  know  what  she  wanted,  by  another  fool  woman 
who  didn't  know,  either,  and  was  born  cross-eyed  as  to 
right  and  wrong." 

"Why,  Henry  Whitman,  it  ain't  true!" 

"I  suppose  it  ain't." 

"No  book  is  true — that  is,  no  story." 

"  If  it  ain't  true,  so  much  the  less  reason  to  tell  such 
a  pack  of  stupid  lies,"  said  Henry.  He  closed  the 
book  with  a  snap. 

"Why,  Henry,  ain't  you  going  to  finish  it?" 

"No,  I  ain't.     I'm  going  back  to  the  shop  to  work." 

"Henry  Whitman,  you  ain't!" 

"Yes,  I  am.  As  for  pottering  round  here,  and  try 
ing  to  get  up  an  interest  in  things  I  ought  to  have 
begun  instead  of  ended  in,  and  setting  round  reading 
books  that  I  can't  keep  my  mind  on,  and  if  I  do,  just 
get  madder  and  madder,  I  won't.  I'm  going  back 
to  work  with  my  hands  the  way  I've  been  working 
the  last  forty  years,  and  then  I  guess  I'll  get  my  mind 
out  of  leading-strings." 

"Henry  Whitman,  be  you  crazy?" 

"No,  but  I  shall  be  if  I  set  round  this  way  much 
longer. ' ' 

"You  don't  need  to  do  a  mite  of  work." 

"You  don't  suppose  it's  the  money  I'm  thinking 
about!  It's  the  work." 

"What  will  folks  say?" 

"I  don't  care  what  they  say." 

"Henry  Whitman,  I  thought  I  knew  you,  but  I 
declare  it  seems  as  if  I  have  never  known  you  at  all," 

186 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Sylvia  said.  She  looked  at  him  with  her  puzzled, 
troubled  eyes,  in  which  tears  were  gathering.  She 
was  still  very  pale. 

A  sudden  pity  for  her  came  over  Henry.  After 
all,  he  ought  to  try  to  make  his  position  clear  to  her. 
"Sylvia,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  think  you  would 
do,  after  all  these  years  of  housekeeping,  if  you  had 
to  stand  in  a  shoe-shop,  from  morning  till  night,  at 
a  bench  cutting  leather?" 

Sylvia  stared  at  him.     "Me?" 

"Yes,  you." 

"Why,  you  know  I  couldn't  do  it,  Henry  Whit 
man!" 

"Well,  no  more  can  I  stand  such  a  change  in  my 
life.  I  can't  go  to  farming  and  setting  around  after 
forty  years  in  a  shoe-shop,  any  more  than  you  can 
work  in  a  shoe-shop  after  forty  years  of  housekeep 
ing." 

"It  ain't  the  same  thing  at  all,"  said  Sylvia. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  it  ain't."  Sylvia  closed  her  thin  lips 
conclusively.  This,  to  her  mind,  was  reasoning  which 
completely  blocked  all  argument. 

Henry  looked  at  her  hopelessly.  "I  didn't  sup 
pose  you  would  understand,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  thought  so,"  said  Sylvia. 
"I  guess  I  have  a  mind  capable  of  understanding  as 
much  as  a  man.  There  is  no  earthly  sense  in  your 
going  to  work  in  the  shop  again,  with  all  our  money. 
What  would  folks  say,  and  why  do  you  want  to  do 
it?" 

"I  have  told  you  why." 

"You  haven't  told  me  why  at  all." 
187 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Henry  said  no  more.  He  looked  out  of  the  win 
dow  with  a  miserable  expression.  The  beautiful 
front  yard,  with  its  box-bordered  flower-beds,  did 
not  cheer  him  with  the  sense  of  possession.  He 
heard  a  bird  singing  with  a  flutelike  note;  he  heard 
bees  humming  over  the  flowers,  and  he  longed  to 
hear,  instead,  the  buzz  and  whir  of  machines  which 
had  become  the  accompaniment  of  his  song  of  life. 
A  terrible  isolation  and  homesickness  came  over 
him.  He  thought  of  the  humble  little  house  in  which 
he  and  Sylvia  had  lived  so  many  years,  and  a  sort 
of  passion  of  longing  for  it  seized  him.  He  felt  that 
for  the  moment  he  fairly  loathed  all  this  comparative 
splendor  with  which  he  was  surrounded. 

"What  do  you  think  she  would  say  if  you  went 
back  to  the  shop?"  asked  Sylvia.  She  jerked  her 
head  with  an  upward,  side  wise  movement  towards 
Rose's  room. 

"She  may  not  be  contented  to  live  here  very  long, 
anyway.  It's  likely  that  when  the  summer's  over 
she'll  begin  to  think  of  her  fine  friends  in  New  York, 
and  want  to  lead  the  life  she's  been  used  to  again," 
said  Henry.  "It  ain't  likely  it  would  make  much 
difference  to  her." 

Sylvia  looked  at  Henry  as  he  had  never  seen  her 
look  before.  She  spoke  with  a  passion  of  utterance 
of  which  he  had  never  thought  her  capable.  "She 
is  going  to  stay  right  here  in  her  aunt  Abrahama's 
house,  and  have  all  she  would  have  had  if  there  hadn't 
been  any  will,"  said  she,  fiercely. 

"You  would  make  her  stay  if  she  didn't  want  to?" 
said  Henry,  gazing  at  her  wonderingly. 

"She's  got  to  want  to  stay,"  said  Sylvia,  still  with 
1 88 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

the  same  strange  passion.  "There'll  be  enough  going 
on;  you  needn't  worry.  I'm  going  to  have  parties 
for  her,  if  she  wants  them.  She  says  she's  been  used 
to  playing  cards,  and  you  know  how  we  were  brought 
up  about  cards — to  think  they  were  wicked.  Well, 
I  don't  care  if  they  are  wicked.  If  she  wants  them 
she's  going  to  have  card-parties,  and  prizes,  too,  though 
I  'most  know  it's  as  bad  as  gambling.  And  if  she 
wants  to  have  dancing  -  parties  (she  knows  how  to 
dance)  she's  going  to  have  them,  too.  I  don't  think 
there's  six  girls  in  East  Westland  who  know  how  to 
dance,  but  there  must  be  a  lot  in  Alford,  and  the 
parlor  is  big  enough  for  'most  everything.  She  shall 
have  every  mite  as  much  going  on  as  she  would  have 
in  New  York.  She  sha'n't  miss  anything.  I'm  will 
ing  to  have  some  dinners  with  courses,  too,  if  she 
wants  them,  and  hire  Hannah  Simmons's  little  sister 
to  wait  on  the  table,  with  a  white  cap  on  her  head 
and  a  white  apron  with  a  bib.  I'm  willing  Rose  shall 
have  everything  she  wants.  And  then,  you  know, 
Henry,  there's  the  church  sociables  and  suppers  all 
winter,  and  she'll  like  to  go  to  them;  and  they  will 
most  likely  get  up  a  lecture  and  concert  course.  If 
she  can't  be  every  mite  as  lively  here  in  East  Westland 
as  in  New  York,  if  I  set  out  to  have  her,  I'll  miss  my 
guess.  There's  lots  of  beautiful  dresses  up-stairs 
that  belonged  to  her  aunt,  and  I'm  going  to  have  the 
dressmaker  come  here  and  make  some  over  for  her. 
It's  no  use  talking,  she's  going  to  stay." 

"Well,  I  am  sure  I  hope  she  will,"  said  Henry,  still 
regarding  his  wife  with  wonder. 

"She  is  going  to,  and  if  she  does  stay,  you  know 
you  can't  go  back  to  work  in  the  shop,  Henry  Whit- 

189 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

man.  I'd  like  to  know  how  you  think  you  could  set 
down  to  the  table  with  her,  smelling  of  leather  the 
way  you  used  to." 

"There  might  be  worse  smells." 

"That's  just  because  you  are  used  to  it." 

"That's  just  it,"  cried  Henry,  pathetically.  "Can't 
you  get  it  through  your  head,  Sylvia?  It  is  because 
I'm  used  to  it.  Can't  you  see  it's  kind  of  dangerous 
to  turn  a  man  out  of  his  tracks  after  he's  been  in 
them  so  long?" 

"There  ain't  any  need  for  you  to  work  in  the  shop. 
We've  got  plenty  of  money  without,"  said  Sylvia, 
settling  back  immovably  in  her  chair,  and  Henry 
gave  it  up. 

Sylvia  considered  that  she  had  won  the  victory. 
She  began  sewing  again.  Henry  continued  to  look 
out  of  the  window. 

"She  is  a  delicate  little  thing,  and  I  guess  it's  mighty 
lucky  for  her  that  she  came  to  live  in  the  country 
just  as  she  did,"  Sylvia  observed. 

"I  suppose  you  know  what's  bound  to  happen  if 
she  and  Mr.  Allen  stay  on  in  the  same  house,"  said 
Henry.  "As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  think  it  would 
be  a  good  arrangement.  Mr.  Allen  has  a  good  salary, 
and  she  has  enough  to  make  up  for  what  he  can't 
do;  and  I  would  like  to  keep  the  child  here  my 
self,  but  I  somehow  thought  you  didn't  like  the 
idea." 

Again  Sylvia  turned  white,  and  stared  at  her 
husband  almost  with  horror.  "I  don't  see  why  you 
think  it  is  bound  to  happen,"  said  she. 

Henry  laughed.  "It  doesn't  take  a  very  long 
head  to  think  so." 

190 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"It  sha'n't  happen.  That  child  ain't  going  to 
marry  anybody." 

"Sylvia,  you  don't  mean  that  you  want  her  to  be 
an  old  maid!" 

"It's  the  best  thing  for  any  girl,  if  she  only  thought 
so,  to  be  an  old  maid,"  said  Sylvia. 

Henry  laughed  a  little.  "That's  a  compliment  to 
me." 

"I  ain't  saying  anything  against  you.  I've  been 
happy  enough,  and  I  suppose  I've  been  better  off 
than  if  I'd  stayed  single;  but  Rose  has  got  enough 
to  live  on,  and  what  any  girl  that's  got  enough  to  live 
on  wants  to  get  married  for  beats  me." 

Henry  laughed  again,  a  little  bitterly  this  time. 
"Then  you  wouldn't  have  married  me  if  you  had  had 
enough  to  live  on?"  he  said. 

Sylvia  looked  at  him,  and  an  odd,  shamed  tender 
ness  came  into  her  elderly  face.  "There's  no  use 
talking  about  what  wasn't,  anyway,"  said  she,  and 
Henry  understood. 

After  a  little  while  Sylvia  again  brought  up  the  sub 
ject  of  Horace  and  Rose.  She  was  evidently  very 
uneasy  about  it.  "I  don't  see  why  you  think  be 
cause  a  young  man  and  girl  are  in  the  same  house 
anything  like  that  is  bound  to  happen,"  said  she. 

"Well,  perhaps  not;  maybe  it  won't,"  said  Henry, 
soothingly.  He  saw  that  it  troubled  Sylvia,  and  it 
had  always  been  an  unwritten  maxim  with  him  that 
Sylvia  should  not  be  troubled  if  it  could  be  helped. 
He  knew  that  he  himself  was  about  to  trouble  her, 
and  why  should  she  be  vexed,  in  addition,  about  an 
uncertainty,  as  possibly  this  incipient  love  -  affair 
might  be.  After  all,  why  should  it  follow  that  be- 

191 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

cause  a  young  man  and  a  girl  lived  in  the  same  house 
they  should  immediately  fall  in  love?  And  why 
should  it  not  be  entirely  possible  that  they  might  have 
a  little  love-making  without  any  serious  consequences  ? 
Horace  had  presumably  paid  a  little  attention  to 
girls  before,  and  it  was  very  probable  that  Rose  had 
received  attention.  Why  bother  about  such  a  thing 
as  this  when  poor  Sylvia  would  really  be  worried 
over  his,  Henry's,  return  to  his  old,  humble  voca 
tion? 

For  Henry,  as  he  sat  beside  the  window  that 
pleasant  afternoon,  was  becoming  more  and  more 
convinced  it  must  happen.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
his  longing  was  gradually  strengthening  into  a  pur 
pose  which  he  could  not  overcome.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  every  flutelike  note  of  a  bird  in  the  pleasance 
outside  served  to  make  this  purpose  more  unassail 
able,  as  if  every  sweet  flower-breath  and  every  bee- 
hum,  every  drawing  of  his  wife's  shining  needle  through 
the  white  garment  which  she  was  mending,  all  served 
to  render  his  purpose  so  settled  a  thing  that  any 
change  in  it  was  as  impossible  as  growth  in  a  granite 
ledge.  That  very  day  Henry  had  been  approached 
by  the  superintendent  of  Lawson  &  Fisher's,  where 
he  had  worked,  and  told  that  his  place,  which  had 
been  temporarily  filled,  was  vacant  and  ready  for 
him.  He  had  said  that  he  must  consider  the  matter, 
but  he  had  known  in  his  heart  that  the  matter  ad 
mitted  of  no  consideration.  He  looked  gloomy  as  he 
sat  there  with  his  unread  book  in  his  hand,  yet  grad 
ually  an  eager,  happy  light  crept  into  his  eyes. 

After  supper  he  told  Sylvia  he  was  going  down 
to  the  store.  He  did  go,  but  on  his  way  he  stopped 

192 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

at  the  superintendent's  house  and  told  that  he  would 
report  for  work  in  the  morning. 

Rose  had  not  come  down  to  supper.  Henry  had 
wondered  why,  and  sympathized  in  part  with  Sylvia's 
anxiety.  Still,  he  had  a  vague  feeling  that  a  young 
girl's  not  coming  down  to  supper  need  not  be  taken 
very  seriously,  that  young  girls  had  whims  and  fancies 
which  signified  nothing,  and  that  it  was  better  to  let 
them  alone  until  they  got  over  them.  He  knew  that 
Sylvia,  however,  would  take  the  greatest  comfort  in 
coddling  the  girl,  and  he  welcomed  the  fact  as  con 
ducing  to  his  making  his  arrangements  for  the  next 
day.  He  thought  that  Sylvia  would  not  have  the 
matter  in  mind  at  all,  since  she  had  the  girl  to  fuss 
over,  and  that  she  would  not  ask  him  any  questions. 
On  his  way  home  he  stopped  at  Sidney  Meeks's.  He 
found  the  lawyer  in  a  demoralized  dining-room,  which 
had,  nevertheless,  an  air  of  homely  comfort,  with  its 
chairs  worn  into  hollows  to  fit  human  anatomies,  and 
its  sideboard  set  out  with  dusty  dishes  and  a  noble 
ham.  Meeks  was  a  very  good  cook,  although  one 
could  not  confidently  assert  that  dust  and  dirt  did  not 
form  a  part  of  his  ingredients.  One  of  his  triumphs 
was  ham  cooked  in  a  manner  which  he  claimed  to 
have  invented.  After  having  been  boiled,  it  was 
baked,  and  frequently  basted  in  a  way  which  Meeks 
kept  as  secret  as  the  bouquet  of  his  grape  wine.  Sid 
ney  sat  at  the  table  eating  bread  and  ham  spread  with 
mustard,  and  there  were  also  a  mysterious  pie  in  re 
serve  and  a  bottle  of  wine.  "Draw  up,  Henry,"  said 
Sidney. 

"I've  had  supper." 

"What?" 

193 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Sylvia  had  chicken  salad  and  flapjacks  and  hot 
biscuits." 

Sidney  sniffed.  "Cut  a  slice  off  that  ham,"  he 
ordered,  "and  draw  a  chair  up.  Not  that  one;  you'll 
go  through.  Yes,  that's  right.  Bring  over  another 
wineglass  while  you're  about  it.  This  is  daisy  wine, 
ten  years  old.  I've  got  a  pie  here  that  I'll  be  willing 
to  stake  your  fortune  you  can't  analyze.  It's  after 
the  pattern  of  the  cold  pasties  you  read  about  in  old 
English  novels.  You  shall  guess  what's  in  it.  Draw 
up." 

Henry  obeyed.  He  found  himself  sitting  opposite 
Sidney,  eating  and  drinking  with  intense  enjoyment. 
Sidney  chuckled.  "Good?"  said  he. 

"I  don't  know  when  my  victuals  have  tasted  right 
before,"  said  Henry.  He  received  a  large  wedge  of 
the  pie  on  his  plate,  and  his  whole  face  beamed  with 
the  first  taste. 

Sidney  leaned  across  the  table  and  whispered. 
"Squabs,"  said  he,  "and  —  robins,  big  fat  ones.  I 
shot  'em  night  before  last.  It's  all  nonsense  the  fuss 
folks  make  about  robins,  and  a  lot  of  other  birds,  as 
far  as  that  goes — damned  sentiment.  Year  before  last 
I  hadn't  a  bushel  of  grapes  on  my  vines  because  the 
robins  stole  them,  and  not  a  half -bushel  of  pears  on 
that  big  seckel-pear-tree.  If  they'd  eaten  them  up 
clean  I  wouldn't  have  felt  so  bad,  but  there  the 
ground  would  be  covered  with  pears  rotted  on  ac 
count  of  one  little  peck.  They  are  enough  sight  bet 
ter  to  be  on  women's  bonnets  than  eating  up  folks' 
substance,  though  I  don't  promulgate  that  doctrine 
abroad.  And  one  thing  I  ain't  afraid  to  say:  big 
fat  robins  ought  to  be  made  some  use  of.  This  pie 

194 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

is  enough  sight  more  wholesome  for  the  bodies  of 
men  who  have  immortal  souls  dependent  a  little  on 
what  is  eaten,  in  spite  of  the  preaching,  than  Western 
tainted  beef.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  pie  was  the 
natural  destiny  of  a  robin,  and  I  make  squab-and- 
robin  pies  every  week  of  my  life.  The  robins  are 
out  of  mischief  in  that  pie,  and  they  are  doing  us 
good.  What  makes  you  look  so,  though,  Henry? 
There's  something  besides  my  pie  and  ham  and  wine 
that  gives  that  look  to  your  face." 

"I'm  going  back  to  the  shop  to-morrow,"  said 
Henry. 

Sidney  looked  at  him.  "Most  folks  would  say 
you  were  an  uncommon  fool,"  said  he.  "I  suppose 
you  know  that." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Henry,  happily.  Along  with 
the  savory  pie  in  his  mouth  came  a  subtler  relish  to 
his  very  soul.  The  hunger  of  the  honest  worker  who 
returns  to  his  work  was  being  appeased. 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHILE  Henry  was  at  Sidney  Meeks's,  Horace  sat 
alone  smoking  and  reading  the  evening  paper.  He 
kept  looking  up  from  the  paper  and  listening.  He 
was  hoping  that  Rose,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she 
had  not  been  able  to  come  down  to  supper,  might 
yet  make  her  appearance.  He  speculated  on  her 
altered  looks  and  manner  at  dinner.  He  could  not 
help  being  a  little  anxious,  in  spite  of  all  Mrs.  Ayres's 
assurances  and  the  really  vague  nature  of  his  own 
foreboding.  He  asked  himself  if  he  had  had  from 
the  beginning  anything  upon  which  to  base  suspicion. 
Given  the  premises  of  an  abnormal  girl  with  a  pas 
sion  for  himself  which  humiliated  him,  an  abnormal 
woman  like  Miss  Parrel  with  a  similar  passion,  albeit 
under  better  control,  the  melodramatic  phases  of  the 
candy,  and  sudden  death,  and  traces  of  arsenical 
poison,  what  should  be  the  conclusion  ? 

He  himself  had  eaten  some  of  presumably  the  same 
candy  with  no  ill  effects.  Mrs.  Ayres  had  assured 
him  of  her  constant  watchfulness  over  her  daughter, 
who  was  no  doubt  in  an  alarmingly  nervous  state, 
but  was  she  necessarily  dangerous?  He  doubted  if 
Mrs.  Ayres  had  left  the  two  girls  a  moment  to  them 
selves  during  the  drive.  What  possible  reason,  after 
all,  had  he  for  alarm? 

196 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

When  he  heard  Sylvia  mounting  the  stairs,  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  little  tray  borne  carefully,  he 
gave  up  all  hope  of  Rose's  coming  down.  Presently 
he  went  out  and  walked  down  the  village  street,  smok 
ing.  As  he  passed  out  of  the  yard  he  glanced  up  at 
Rose's  windows,  and  saw  the  bright  light  behind  the 
curtains.  He  felt  glad  that  the  girl  had  a  woman 
like  Sylvia  to  care  for  her. 

As  he  looked  Sylvia's  shadow  passed  between  the 
window  and  the  light.  It  had,  in  its  shadowy  en 
largement,  a  benignant  aspect.  There  was  an  an 
gelic,  motherly  bend  to  the  vague  shoulders.  Sylvia 
was  really  in  her  element.  She  petted  and  scolded 
the  girl,  whom  she  found  flung  upon  her  bed  like  a 
castaway  flower,  sobbing  pitifully. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  demanded  Sylvia, 
in  a  honeyed  tone,  which  at  once  stung  and  sweetened. 
"Here  you  are  in  the  dark,  crying  and  going  without 
your  victuals.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
self." 

As  she  spoke  Sylvia  struck  a  match  and  lit  the 
lamp.  Rose  buried  her  face  deeper  in  the  bed. 

"I  don't  want  any  lamp,"  she  gasped. 

"Don't  want  any  lamp?  Ain't  you  ashamed  of 
yourself  ?  I  should  think  you  were  a  baby.  You  are 
going  to  have  a  lamp,  and  you  are  going  to  sit  up 
and  eat  your  supper."  Sylvia  drew  down  the  white 
shades  carefully,  then  she  bent  over  the  girl.  She 
did  not  touch  her,  but  she  was  quivering  with  ma 
ternal  passion  which  seemed  to  embrace  without  any 
physical  contact.  "Now,  what  is  the  matter?"  she 
said. 

"Nothing." 

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THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"What  is  the  matter?"  repeated  Sylvia,  insist 
ently. 

Suddenly  Rose  sat  up.  "Nothing  is  the  matter," 
she  said.  "I  am  just  nervous."  She  made  an  effort 
to  control  her  face.  She  smiled  at  Sylvia  with  her 
wet  eyes  and  swollen  mouth.  She  resolutely  dabbed 
at  her  flushed  face  with  a  damp  little  ball  of  handker 
chief. 

Sylvia  turned  to  the  bureau  and  took  a  fresh 
handkerchief  from  the  drawer.  She  sprinkled  it  with 
some  toilet  water  that  was  on  the  dressing-table,  and 
gave  it  to  Rose.  "Here  is  a  clean  handkerchief," 
she  said,  "and  I've  put  some  of  your  perfumery  on 
it.  Give  me  the  other." 

Rose  took  the  sweet-smelling  square  of  linen  and 
tried  to  smile  again.  "I  just  got  nervous,"  she  said. 

"Set  down  here  in  this  chair,"  said  Sylvia,  "and 
I'll  draw  up  the  little  table,  and  I  want  you  to  eat 
your  supper.  I've  brought  up  something  real  nice 
for  you." 

"Thank you,  Aunt  Sylvia;  you're  a  dear,"  said  Rose, 
pitifully,  "but — I  don't  think  I  can  eat  anything." 
In  spite  of  herself  the  girl's  face  quivered  again  and 
fresh  tears  welled  into  her  eyes.  She  passed  her 
scented  handkerchief  over  them.  "I  am  not  a  bit 
hungry,"  she  said,  brokenly. 

Sylvia  drew  a  large,  chintz-covered  chair  forward. 
"Set  right  down  in  this  chair,"  she  said,  firmly.  And 
Rose  slid  weakly  from  the  bed  and  sank  into  the 
chair.  She  watched,  with  a  sort  of  dull  gratitude, 
while  Sylvia  spread  a  little  table  with  a  towel  and 
set  out  the  tray. 

"There,"  said  she.  "Here  is  some  cream  toast 
198 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

and  some  of  those  new  pease,  and  a  little  chop,  spring 
lamb,  and  a  cup  of  tea.  Now  you  just  eat  every 
mite  of  it,  and  then  I've  got  a  saucer  of  strawberries 
and  cream  for  you  to  top  off  with." 

Rose  looked  hopelessly  at  the  dainty  fare.  Then 
she  looked  at  Sylvia.  The  impulse  to  tell  another 
woman  her  trouble  got  the  better  of  her.  If  women 
had  not  other  women  in  whom  to  confide,  there  are 
times  when  their  natures  would  be  too  much  for 
them.  "I  heard  some  news  this  morning,"  said  she. 
She  attempted  to  make  her  voice  exceedingly  light 
and  casual. 

"What?" 

"I  heard  about  Mr.  Allen's  engagement." 

"Engagement  to  who?" 

"To— Lucy." 

"Lucy!" 

"Lucy  Ayres.  She  seems  to  be  a  very  sweet  girl. 
She  is  very  pretty.  I  hope  she  will  make  him  very 
happy."  Rose's  voice  trembled  with  sad  hypocrisy. 

"Who  told  you?"  demanded  Sylvia. 

"She  told  me  herself." 

"Did  her  mother  hear  it?" 

"She  did,  but  I  think  she  did  not  understand. 
Lucy  spoke  in  French.  She  talks  French  very  well. 
She  studied  with  Miss  Farrel,  you  know.  I  think 
Lucy  has  done  all  in  her  power  to  fit  herself  to  be 
come  a  good  wife  for  an  educated  man." 

"What  did  she  tell  you  in  French  for ?  Why  didn't 
she  speak  in  English?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  I  know.  She  did  it  so  her  mother  wouldn't 
hear,  and  say  in  English  that  she  was  telling  an  awful 

199 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

whopper.  Mr.  Allen  is  no  more  engaged  to  Lucy 
Ayres  than  I  am." 

Rose  gazed  at  Sylvia  with  sudden  eagerness. 
"What  makes  you  think  so,  Aunt  Sylvia?" 

"Nothing  makes  me  think  what  I  know.  Mr. 
Allen  has  never  paid  any  attention  to  Lucy  Ayres, 
beyond  what  he  couldn't  help,  and  she's  made  a 
mountain  out  of  a  mole-hill.  Lucy  Ayres  is  man- 
crazy,  that's  all.  You  needn't  tell  me." 

"Then  you  don't  think—?" 

"I  know  better.     I'll  ask  Mr.  Allen." 

"If  you  asked  him  it  would  make  it  very  hard  for 
him  if  it  wasn't  so,"  said  Rose. 

"I  don't  see  why." 

"Mr.  Allen  is  a  gentleman,  and  he  could  not  prac 
tically  accuse  a  woman  of  making  an  unauthorized 
claim  of  that  sort,"  said  Rose. 

"Well,  I  won't  say  anything  about  it  to  him  if  you 
think  I  had  better  not,"  said  Sylvia,  "but  I  must 
say  I  think  it's  pretty  hard  on  a  man  to  have  a  girl 
going  round  telling  folks  he's  engaged  to  her  when 
he  ain't.  Eat  that  lamb  chop  and  them  pease  while 
they're  hot." 

"I  am  going  to.  They  are  delicious.  I  didn't 
think  I  was  hungry  at  all,  but  to  have  things  brought 
up  this  way — " 

"You've  got  to  eat  a  saucer  of  strawberries  after 
wards,"  said  Sylvia,  happily. 

She  watched  the  girl  eat,  and  she  was  in  a  sort  of 
ecstasy,  which  was,  nevertheless,  troubled.  After  a 
while,  when  Rose  had  nearly  finished  the  strawberries, 
Sylvia  ventured  a  remark. 

"Lucy  Ayres  is  a  queer  girl,"  said  she.  "I've 
200 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

known  all  about  her  for  some  time.  She  has  been 
thinking  young  men  were  in  love  with  her,  when 
they  never  had  an  idea  of  such  a  thing,  ever  since 
she  was  so  high." 

Sylvia  indicated  by  her  out-stretched  hand  a  point 
about  a  foot  and  a  half  from  the  floor. 

"It  seems  as  if  she  must  have  had  some  reason 
sometimes,"  said  Rose,  with  an  impulse  of  loyalty 
towards  the  other  girl.  "She  is  very  pretty." 

"As  far  as  I  know,  no  young  man  in  East  West- 
land  has  ever  thought  of  marrying  her,"  said  Sylvia. 
"I  think  myself  they  are  afraid  of  her.  It  doesn't 
do  for  a  girl  to  act  too  anxious  to  get  married.  She 
just  cuts  her  own  nose  off." 

"I  have  never  seen  her  do  anything  unbecoming," 
began  Rose;  then  she  stopped,  for  Lucy's  expression, 
which  had  caused  a  revolt  in  her,  was  directly  within 
her  mental  vision. 

It  seemed  as  if  Sylvia  interpreted  her  thought.  "  I 
have  seen  her  making  eyes,"  said  she. 

Rose  was  silent.  She  realized  that  she,  also,  had 
seen  poor  Lucy  making  eyes. 

"What  a  girl  is  so  crazy  to  get  married  for,  anyway, 
when  she  has  a  good  mother  and  a  good  home,  I  can't 
see,"  said  Sylvia,  leading  directly  up  to  the  subject 
in  the  secret  place  of  her  mind. 

Rose  blushed,  with  apparently  no  reason.  "But 
she  can't  have  her  mother  always,  you  know,  Aunt 
Sylvia,"  said  she. 

"Her  mother's  folks  are  awful  long-lived." 

"But  Lucy  is  younger.  In  the  course  of  nature 
she  will  outlive  her  mother,  and  then  she  will  be  all 
alone." 

14  201 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"What  if  she  is?  'Ain't  she  got  her  good  home 
and  money  enough  to  be  independent?  Lucy  won't 
need  to  lift  a  finger  to  earn  money  if  she's  careful." 

"I  always  thought  it  would  be  very  dreadful  to 
live  alone,"  Rose  said,  with  another  blush. 

"Well,  she  needn't  be  alone.  There's  plenty  of 
women  always  in  want  of  a  home.  No  woman  need 
live  alone  if  she  don't  want  to." 

"But  it  isn't  quite  like — "     Rose  hesitated. 

"Like  what?" 

"It  wouldn't  seem  quite  so  much  as  if  you  had  your 
own  home,  would  it,  as  if — "  Rose  hesitated  again. 

Sylvia  interrupted  her.  "A  girl  is  a  fool  to  get 
married  if  she's  got  money  enough  to  live  on,"  said  she. 

"Why,  Aunt  Sylvia,  wouldn't  you  have  married 
Uncle  Henry  if  you  had  had  plenty  of  money?"  asked 
the  girl,  exactly  as  Henry  had  done. 

Sylvia  colored  faintly.  "That  was  a  very  different 
matter,"  said  she. 

"But  why?" 

"Because  it  was,"  said  Sylvia,  bringing  up  one  of 
her  impregnable  ramparts  against  argument. 

But  the  girl  persisted.   "I  don't  see  why,"  she  said. 

Sylvia  colored  again.  "Well,  for  one  thing,  your 
uncle  Henry  is  one  man  in  a  thousand,"  said  she. 
"I  know  every  silly  girl  thinks  she  has  found  just 
that  man,  but  it's  only  once  in  a  thousand  times  she 
does;  and  she's  mighty  lucky  if  she  don't  find  out 
that  the  man  in  a  thousand  is  another  woman's  hus 
band,  when  she  gets  her  eyes  open.  Then  there's 
another  thing:  nothing  has  ever  come  betwixt  us." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"I  mean  we've  had  no  family,"  said  Sylvia,  firmly, 

202 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

although  her  color  deepened.  "I  know  you  think 
it's  awful  for  me  to  say  such  a  thing,  but  look  right 
up  and  down  this  street  at  the  folks  that  got  married 
about  the  same  time  Henry  and  I  did.  How  many 
of  them  that's  had  families  'ain't  had  reason  to  regret 
it  ?  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  child,  girls  don't  know  every 
thing.  It's  awful  having  children,  and  straining 
every  nerve  to  bring  them  up  right,  and  then  to  have 
them  go  off  in  six  months  in  consumption,  the  way 
the  Masons  lost  their  three  children,  two  boys  and  a 
girl.  Or  to  worry  and  fuss  until  you  are  worn  to  a 
shadow,  the  way  Mrs.  George  Emerson  has  over  her 
son,  and  then  have  him  take  to  drink.  There  wasn't 
any  consumption  in  the  Mason  family  on  either  side 
in  a  straight  line,  but  the  three  children  all  went 
with  it.  And  there  ain't  any  drink  in  the  Emerson 
family,  on  her  side  or  his,  all  as  straight  as  a  string, 
but  Mrs.  Emerson  was  a  Weaver,  and  she  had  a  great- 
uncle  who  drank  himself  to  death.  I  don't  believe 
there's  a  family  anywhere  around  that  hasn't  got 
some  dreadful  thing  in  it  to  leak  out,  when  you  don't 
expect  it,  in  children.  Sometimes  it  only  leaks  in  a 
straight  line,  and  sometimes  it  leaks  sidewise.  You 
never  know.  Now  here's  my  family.  I  was  a  White, 
you  know,  like  your  aunt  Abrahama.  There's  con 
sumption  in  our  family,  the  worst  kind.  I  never  had 
any  doubt  but  what  Henry  and  I  would  have  lost  our 
children,  if  we'd  had  any." 

"But  you  didn't  have  any,"  said  Rose,  in  a  curi 
ously  naive  and  hopeful  tone. 

"  We  are  the  only  ones  of  all  that  got  married  about 
the  time  we  did  who  didn't  have  any,"  said  Sylvia, 
in  her  conclusive  tone. 

203 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"But,  Aunt  Sylvia,"  said  Rose,  "you  wouldn't  stop 
everybody's  getting  married?  Why,  there  wouldn't 
be  any  people  in  the  world  in  a  short  time." 

"There's  some  people  in  the  world  now  that  would 
be  a  good  sight  better  off  out  of  it,  for  themselves  and 
other  folks,"  said  Sylvia. 

"Then  you  don't  think  anybody  ought  to  get 
married  ?" 

"If  folks  want  to  be  fools,  let  them.  Nothing  I 
can  say  is  going  to  stop  them,  but  I'll  miss  my  guess 
if  some  of  the  girls  that  get  married  had  the  faintest 
idea  what  they  were  going  into  they  would  stop  short, 
if  it  sent  them  over  a  rail-fence.  Folks  can't  tell  girls 
everything,  but  marriage  is  an  awful  risk,  an  awful 
risk.  And  I  say,  as  I  said  before,  any  girl  who  has 
got  enough  to  live  on  is  a  fool  to  get  married." 

"But  I  don't  see  why,  after  all." 

"Because  she  is,"  replied  Sylvia. 

This  time  Rose  did  not  attempt  to  bruise  herself 
against  the  elder  woman's  imperturbability.  She  did 
not  look  convinced,  but  again  the  troubled  expres 
sion  came  over  her  face. 

"I  am  glad  you  relished  your  supper,"  said  Sylvia. 

"It  was  very  nice,"  replied  Rose,  absently.  Sud 
denly  the  look  of  white  horror  which  had  overspread 
her  countenance  on  the  night  of  her  arrival  possessed 
it  again. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  cried  Sylvia. 

"I  almost  remembered,  then,"  gasped  the  girl. 
"You  know  what  I  told  you  the  night  I  came.  Don't 
let  me  remember,  Aunt  Sylvia.  I  think  I  shall  die 
if  I  ever  do." 

Sylvia  was  as  white  as  the  girl,  but  she  rose  briskly. 
204 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF   ATLAS 

"There's  nothing  to  remember,"  she  said.  "You're 
nervous,  but  I'm  going  to  make  some  of  that  root- 
beer  of  mine  to-morrow.  It  has  hops  in  it,  and  it's 
real  quieting.  Now  you  stop  worrying,  and  wait  a 
minute.  I've  got  something  to  show  you.  Here, 
you  look  at  this  book  you've  been  reading,  and  stop 
thinking.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute.  I've  just  got 
to  step  into  the  other  chamber." 

Sylvia  was  back  in  a  moment.  She  never  was 
obliged  to  hesitate  for  a  second  as  to  the  whereabouts 
of  any  of  her  possessions.  She  had  some  little  boxes 
in  her  hand,  and  one  rather  large  one  under  her  arm. 
Rose  looked  at  them  with  interest.  "What  is  it, 
Aunt  Sylvia?"  said  she. 

Sylvia  laughed.  "Something  to  show  you  that 
belongs  to  you,"  she  said. 

"Why,  what  have  you  got  that  belongs  to  me, 
Aunt  Sylvia?" 

"You  wait  a  minute." 

Sylvia  and  Rose  both  stood  beside  the  white  dress 
ing-table,  and  Sylvia  opened  the  boxes,  one  after 
another,  and  slowly  and  impressively  removed  their 
contents,  and  laid  them  in  orderly  rows  on  the  white 
dimity  of  the  table.  The  lamplight  shone  on  them, 
and  the  table  blazed  like  an  altar  with  jewelled  fires. 
Rose  gasped.  "Why,  Aunt  Sylvia!"  said  she. 

"All  these  things  belonged  to  your  aunt  Abrahama, 
and  now  they  belong  to  you,"  said  Sylvia,  in  a  trium 
phant  tone. 

"Why,  but  these  are  perfectly  beautiful  things!" 

"Yes;  I  don't  believe  anybody  in  East  Westland 
ever  knew  she  had  them.  I  don't  believe  she  could 
have  worn  them,  even  when  she  was  a  girl,  or  I  should 

205 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

have  heard  of  them.  I  found  them  all  in  her  bureau 
drawer.  She  didn't  even  keep  them  under  lock  and 
key;  but  then  she  never  went  out  anywhere,  and  if 
nobody  even  knew  she  had  them,  they  were  safe 
enough.  Now  they're  all  yours." 

"But  they  belong  to  you,  Aunt  Sylvia." 

Sylvia  took  up  the  most  valuable  thing  there,  a 
really  good  pearl  necklace,  and  held  it  dangling  from 
her  skinny  hand.  "I  should  look  pretty  with  this 
around  my  neck,  shouldn't  I?"  she  said.  "I  wanted 
to  wear  that  pink  silk,  but  when  it  comes  to  some 
things  I  ain't  quite  out  of  my  mind.  Here,  try  it  on." 

Rose  clasped  the  necklace  about  her  white,  round 
throat,  and  smiled  at  herself  in  the  glass.  Rose  wore 
a  gown  of  soft,  green  China  silk,  and  the  pearls  over 
its  lace  collar  surrounded  her  face  with  soft  gleams 
of  rose  and  green. 

"These  amethysts  are  exquisite,"  said  Rose,  after 
she  had  done  admiring  herself.  She  took  up,  one 
after  another,  a  ring,  a  bracelet,  a  necklace,  a  brooch, 
and  ear-rings,  all  of  clear,  pale  amethysts  in  beautiful 
settings. 

"You  could  wear  these,"  she  said  to  Sylvia. 

"I  guess  I  sha'n't  begin  to  wear  jewelry  at  my  time 
of  life,"  declared  Sylvia.  Her  voice  sounded  almost 
angry  in  its  insistence.  "Everything  here  is  yours," 
she  said,  and  nodded  her  head  and  set  her  mouth  hard 
for  further  emphasis. 

The  display  upon  the  dressing-table,  although  not 
of  great  value,  was  in  reality  rather  unusual.  All  of 
the  pieces  were,  of  course,  old,  and  there  were  more 
semi-precious  than  precious  stones,  but  the  settings 
were  good  and  the  whole  enough  to  delight  any 

206 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

girl.  Rose  hung  over  them  in  ecstasy.  She  had  not 
many  jewels.  Somehow  her  income  had  never 
seemed  to  admit  of  jewels.  She  was  pleased  as  a 
child.  Finally  she  hung  some  pearl  ear-rings  over  her 
ears  by  bits  of  white  silk,  her  ears  not  being  pierced. 
She  allowed  the  pearl  necklace  to  remain.  She 
clasped  on  her  arms  some  charming  cameo  bracelets 
and  a  heavy  gold  one  set  with  a  miniature  of  a  lady. 
She  covered  her  slender  fingers  with  rings  and  pinned 
old  brooches  all  over  her  bosom.  She  fastened  a 
pearl  spray  in  her  hair,  and  a  heavy  shell  comb.  Then 
she  fairly  laughed  out  loud.  "There!"  said  she  to 
Sylvia,  and  laughed  again. 

Sylvia  also  laughed,  and  her  laugh  had  the  ring  of 
a  child's.  "Don't  you  feel  as  if  you  were  pretty  well 
off  as  you  are?"  said  she. 

Rose  sprang  forward  and  hugged  Sylvia.  "Well 
off!"  said  she.  "Well  off!  I  never  knew  a  girl  who 
was  better  off.  To  think  of  my  being  here  with  you, 
and  your  being  as  good  as  a  mother  to  me,  and  Uncle 
Henry  as  good  as  a  father;  and  this  dear  old  house; 
and  to  see  myself  fairly  loaded  down  with  jewels  like 
a  crown-princess.  I  never  knew  I  liked  such  things 
so  much.  I  am  fairly  ashamed." 

Rose  kissed  Sylvia  with  such  vehemence  that  the 
elder  woman  started  back,  then  she  turned  again  to 
her  mirror.  She  held  up  her  hands  and  made  the 
gems  flash  with  colored  lights.  There  were  several 
very  good  diamonds,  although  not  of  modern  cut; 
there  was  a  fairly  superb  emerald,  also  pearls  and 
amethysts  and  green-blue  turquoises,  on  her  hands. 
Rose  made  a  pounce  upon  a  necklace  of  pink  coral, 
and  clasped  it  around  her  neck  over  the  pearls. 

207 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  have  them  all  on  now,"  she  said,  and  her  laugh 
rang  out  again. 

Sylvia  surveyed  her  with  a  sort  of  rapture.  She 
had  never  heard  of  "Faust,"  but  the  whole  was  a 
New  England  version  of  the  "Jewel  Song."  As 
Marguerite  had  been  tempted  to  guilty  love  by  jewels, 
so  Sylvia  was  striving  to  have  Rose  tempted  by 
jewels  to  innocent  celibacy.  But  she  was  working 
by  methods  of  which  she  knew  nothing. 

Rose  gazed  at  herself  in  the  glass.  A  rose  flush 
came  on  her  cheeks,  her  lips  pouted  redly,  and  her 
eyes  glittered  under  a  mist.  She  thrust  her  shining 
fingers  through  her  hair,  and  it  stood  up  like  a  golden 
spray  over  her  temples.  Rose  at  that  minute  was 
wonderful.  Something  akin  to  the  gleam  of  the 
jewels  seemed  to  have  waked  within  her.  She  felt  a 
warmth  of  love  and  ownership  of  which  she  had  never 
known  herself  capable.  She  felt  that  the  girl  and  her 
jewels,  the  girl  who  was  the  greatest  jewel  of  all,  was 
her  very  own.  For  the  first  time  a  secret  anxiety  and 
distress  of  mind,  which  she  had  confided  to  no  one,  was 
allayed.  She  said  to  herself  that  everything  was  as  it 
should  be.  She  had  Rose,  and  Rose  was  happy.  Then 
she  thought  how  she  had  found  the  girl  when  she  first 
entered  the  room,  and  had  courage,  seeing  her  as  she 
looked  now,  to  ask  again:  "What  was  the  matter? 
Why  were  you  crying?" 

Rose  turned  upon  her  with  a  smile  of  perfect 
radiance.  "Nothing  at  all,  dear  Aunt  Sylvia,"  she 
cried,  happily.  "Nothing  at  all." 

Sylvia  smiled.  A  smile  was  always  somewhat  of 
an  effort  for  Sylvia,  with  her  hard,  thin  lips,  which 
had  not  been  used  to  smiling.  Sylvia  had  no  sense  of 

308 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

humor.  Her  smiles  would  never  be  possible  except 
for  sudden  and  unlooked-for  pleasures,  and  those  had 
been  rare  in  her  whole  life.  But  now  she  smiled, 
and  with  her  lips  and  her  eyes.  "Rose  wasn't  crying 
because  she  thought  Mr.  Allen  was  going  to  marry 
another  girl,"  she  told  herself.  "She  was  only  crying 
because  a  girl  is  always  full  of  tantrums.  Now  she 
is  perfectly  happy.  I  am  able  to  make  her  perfectly 
happy.  I  know  that  all  a  girl  needs  in  this  world  to 
make  her  happy  and  free  from  care  is  a  woman  to  be 
a  mother  to  her.  I  am  making  her  see  it.  I  can 
make  up  to  her  for  everything.  Everything  is  as  it 
should  be." 

She  stood  gazing  at  Rose  for  a  long  moment  before 
she  spoke.  "Well,"  said  she,  "you  look  like  a  whole 
jewelry  shop.  I  don't  see,  for  my  part,  how  your 
aunt  came  to  have  so  many  —  why  she  wanted 
them." 

"Maybe  they  were  given  to  her,"  said  Rose.  A 
tender  thought  of  the  dead  woman  who  had  gone 
from  the  house  of  her  fathers,  and  left  her  jewels  be 
hind,  softened  her  face.  "Poor  Aunt  Abrahama!" 
said  she.  "She  lived  in  this  house  all  her  life  and 
was  never  married,  and  she  must  have  come  to  think 
that  all  her  pretty  things  had  not  amounted  to  much." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  said  Sylvia.  "I  don't  see  that 
it  was  any  great  hardship  to  live  all  her  life  in  this 
nice  house,  and  I  don't  see  what  difference  it  made 
about  her  having  nice  things,  whether  she  got  married 
or  not.  It  could  not  have  made  any  difference." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Rose,  looking  at  her  with  a 
mischievous  flash  of  blue  eyes.  A  long  green  gleam 
like  a  note  of  music  shot  out  from  the  emerald  on  her 

209 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

finger  as  she  raised  it  in  a  slight  gesture.  "To  have 
all  these  beautiful  things  put  away  in  a  drawer,  and 
never  to  have  anybody  see  her  in  them,  must  have 
made  some  difference." 

"It  wouldn't  make  a  mite,"  said  Sylvia,  stoutly. 

"I  don't  see  why." 

"Because  it  wouldn't." 

Rose  laughed,  and  looked  again  at  herself  in  the 
glass. 

"Now  you  had  better  take  off  those  things  and  go 
to  bed,  and  try  to  go  to  sleep,"  said  Sylvia. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Sylvia,"  said  Rose.  But  she  did  not 
stir,  except  to  turn  this  way  and  that,  to  bring  out 
more  colored  lights  from  the  jewels. 

Sylvia  had  to  mix  bread  that  night,  and  she  was 
obliged  to  go.  Rose  promised  that  she  would  im 
mediately  go  to  bed,  and  kissed  her  again  with  such 
effusion  that  the  older  woman  started  back.  The 
soft,  impetuous  kiss  caused  her  cheek  to  fairly  tingle 
as  she  went  down-stairs  and  about  her  work.  It 
should  have  been  luminous  from  the  light  it  made  in 
her  heart. 

When  Henry  came  home,  with  a  guilty  sense  of 
what  he  was  to  do  next  day,  and  which  he  had  not 
courage  enough  to  reveal,  he  looked  at  his  wife  with 
relief  at  her  changed  expression.  "I  declare,  Sylvia, 
you  look  like  yourself  to-night,"  he  said.  "You've 
been  looking  kind  of  curious  to  me  lately." 

"You  imagined  it,"  said  Sylvia.  She  had  finished 
mixing  the  bread,  and  had  washed  her  hands  and  was 
wiping  them  on  the  roller- towel  in  the  kitchen. 

"Maybe  I  did,"  admitted  Henry.  "You  look  like 
yourself  to-night,  anyhow.  How  is  Rose?" 

210 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Rose  is  all  right.  Young  girls  are  always  getting 
nervous  kinks.  I  took  her  supper  up  to  her,  and  she 
ate  every  mite,  and  now  I  have  given  her  her  aunt's 
jewelry  and  she's  tickled  to  pieces  with  it,  standing 
before  the  looking-glass  and  staring  at  herself  like  a 
little  peacock."  Sylvia  laughed  with  tender  triumph. 

"I  suppose  now  she'll  be  decking  herself  out,  and 
every  young  man  in  East  Westland  will  be  after  her," 
said  Henry.  He  laughed,  but  a  little  bitterly.  He, 
also,  was  not  altogether  unselfish  concerning  the  pro 
prietorship  of  this  young  thing  which  had  come  into 
his  elderly  life.  He  was  not  as  Sylvia,  but  although 
he  would  have  denied  it  he  privately  doubted  if  even 
Horace  was  quite  good  enough  for  this  girl.  When  it 
came  to  it,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  he  doubted  if  any 
but  the  fatherly  love  which  he  himself  gave  might 
be  altogether  good  for  her. 

"Rose  is  perfectly  contented  just  the  way  she  is," 
declared  Sylvia,  turning  upon  him.  "I  shouldn't  be 
surprised  if  she  lived  out  her  days  here,  just  as  her 
aunt  did." 

"Maybe  it  would  be  the  best  thing,"  said  Henry. 
"She's  got  us  as  long  as  we  live."  Henry  straightened 
himself  as  he  spoke.  Since  his  resolve  to  resume  his 
work  he  had  felt  years  younger.  Lately  he  had  been 
telling  himself  miserably  that  he  was  an  old  man, 
that  his  life-work  was  over.  To-night  the  pulses  of 
youth  leaped  in  his  veins.  He  was  so  pleasantly 
excited  that  after  he  and  Sylvia  had  gone  to  bed  it 
was  long  before  he  fell  asleep,  but  he  did  at  last,  and 
just  in  time  for  Rose  and  Horace. 

Rose,  after  Sylvia  went  down-stairs,  had  put  out 
her  light  and  sat  down  beside  the  window  gazing  out 

211 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

into  the  night.  She  still  wore  her  jewels.  She  could 
not  bear  to  take  them  off.  It  was  a  beautiful  night. 
The  day  had  been  rather  warm,  but  the  night  was  one 
of  coolness  and  peace.  The  moon  was  just  rising. 
Rose  could  see  it  through  the  leafy  branches  of  an 
opposite  elm -tree.  It  seemed  to  be  caught  in  the 
green  foliage.  New  shadows  were  leaping  out  of  the 
distance  as  the  moon  increased.  The  whole  land 
scape  was  dotted  with  white  luminosities  which  it 
was  bliss  not  to  explain,  just  to  leave  mysteries. 
Wonderful  sweetnesses  and  fresh  scents  of  growing 
things,  dew- wet,  came  in  her  face. 

Rose  was  very  happy.  Only  an  hour  before  she 
had  been  miserable,  and  now  her  whole  spirit  had 
leaped  above  her  woe  as  with  the  impetus  of  some 
celestial  fluid  rarer  than  all  the  miseries  of  earth  and 
of  a  necessity  surmounting  them.  She  looked  out  at 
the  night,  and  it  was  to  her  as  if  that  and  the  whole 
world  was  her  jewel-casket,  and  the  jewels  therein 
were  immortal,  and  infinite  in  possibilities  of  giving 
and  receiving  glory  and  joy.  Rose  thought  of  Horace, 
and  a  delicious  thrill  went  over  her  whole  body.  Then 
she  thought  of  Lucy  Ayres,  and  felt  both  pity  and  a 
sort  of  angry  and  contemptuous  repulsion.  "How 
a  girl  can  do  sol"  she  thought. 

Intuitively  she  knew  that  what  she  felt  for  Horace 
was  a  far  nobler  love  than  Lucy's.  "Love — was  it 
love,  after  all?"  Rose  did  not  know,  but  she  gave 
her  head  a  proud  shake.  "I  never  would  put  him  in 
such  a  position,  and  lie  about  him,  just  because — " 
she  said  to  herself. 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence.  Rose  was  innately 
modest  even  as  to  her  own  self-disclosures.  Her 

212 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

emotions  were  so  healthy  that  she  had  the  power  to 
keep  them  under  the  wings  of  her  spirit,  both  to  guard 
and  hold  the  superior  place.  She  had  a  feeling  that 
Lucy  Ayres's  love  for  Horace  was  in  a  way  an  insult 
to  him.  After  what  Sylvia  had  said,  she  had  not  a 
doubt  as  to  the  falsity  of  what  Lucy  had  told  her 
during  their  drive.  She  and  Lucy  had  been  on  the 
front  seat  of  the  carriage,  when  Lucy  had  intimated 
that  there  was  an  understanding  between  herself  and 
Horace.  She  had  spoken  very  low,  in  French,  and 
Rose  had  been  obliged  to  ask  her  to  repeat  her  words. 
Immediately  Lucy's  mother's  head  was  between  the 
two  girls,  and  the  bunch  of  violets  on  her  bonnet 
grazed  Rose's  ear. 

"What  are  you  saying?"  she  had  asked  Lucy, 
sharply.  And  Lucy  had  lied.  "I  said  what  a 
pleasant  day  it  is,"  she  replied. 

"You  said  it  in  French." 

"Yes,  mother." 

"Next  time  say  it  in  English,"  said  Mrs.  Ayres. 

Of  course,  if  Lucy  had  lied  to  her  mother,  she  had 
lied  to  her.  She  had  lied  in  two  languages.  "She 
must  be  a  very  strange  girl,"  thought  Rose.  She 
resolved  that  she  could  not  go  to  see  Lucy  very  often, 
and  a  little  pang  of  regret  shot  through  her.  She 
had  been  very  ready  to  love  poor  Lucy. 

Presently,  as  Rose  sat  beside  the  window,  she  heard 
footsteps  on  the  gravel  sidewalk  outside  the  front 
yard,  and  then  a  man's  figure  came  into  view,  like  a 
moving  shadow.  She  knew  the  figure  was  a  man 
because  there  was  no  swing  of  skirts.  Her  heart 
beat  fast  when  the  man  opened  the  front  gate  and  shut 
it  with  a  faint  click.  She  wondered  if  it  could  be 

213 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Horace,  but  immediately  she  saw,  from  the  slightly 
sidewise  shoulders  and  gait,  that  it  was  Henry  Whit 
man.  She  heard  him  enter;  she  heard  doors  opened 
and  closed.  After  a  time  she  heard  a  murmur  of 
voices.  Then  there  was  a  flash  of  light  across  the 
yard,  from  a  lighted  lamp  being  carried  through  a 
room  below.  The  light  was  reflected  on  the  ceiling 
of  her  room.  Then  it  vanished,  and  everything  was 
quiet.  Rose  thought  that  Sylvia  and  Henry  had 
retired  for  the  night.  She  almost  knew  that  Horace 
was  not  in  the  house.  She  had  heard  him  go  out  after 
supper  and  she  had  not  heard  him  enter.  He  had 
a  habit  of  taking  long  walks  on  fine  nights. 

Rose  sat  and  wondered.  Once  the  suspicion  smote 
her  that  possibly,  after  all,  Lucy  had  spoken  the 
truth,  that  Horace  was  with  her.  Then  she  dis 
missed  the  suspicion  as  unworthy  of  her.  She  re 
called  what  Sylvia  had  said;  she  recalled  how  she 
herself  had  heard  Lucy  lie.  She  knew  that  Horace 
could  not  be  fond  of  a  girl  like  that,  and  he  had 
known  her  quite  a  long  time.  Again  Rose's  young 
rapture  and  belief  in  her  own  happiness  reigned.  She 
sat  still,  and  the  moon  at  last  sailed  out  of  the  feathery 
clasp  of  the  elm  branches,  and  the  whole  landscape 
was  in  a  pale,  clear  glow.  Then  Horace  came.  Rose 
started  up.  She  stood  for  an  instant  irresolute,  then 
she  stole  out  of  her  room  and  down  the  spiral  stair 
very  noiselessly.  She  opened  the  front  door  before 
Horace  could  insert  his  key  in  the  latch. 

Horace  started  back. 

"Hush,"  whispered  Rose.  She  stifled  a  laugh. 
"Step  back  out  in  the  yard  just  a  minute,"  she  whis 
pered. 

1*4 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Horace  obeyed.  He  stepped  softly  back,  and 
Rose  joined  him  after  she  had  closed  the  door  with 
great  care. 

"Now  come  down  as  far  as  the  gate,  out  of  the 
shadows,"  whispered  Rose.  "I  want  to  show  you 
something." 

The  two  stole  down  to  the  gate.  Then  Rose  faced 
Horace  in  a  full  glare  of  moonlight. 

"Look  at  me,"  said  she,  and  she  stifled  another 
laugh  of  pure,  childish  delight. 

Horace  looked.  Only  a  few  of  the  stones  which 
Rose  wore  caught  the  moonlight  to  any  extent,  but 
she  was  all  of  a  shimmer  and  gleam,  like  a  creature 
decked  with  dewdrops. 

"Look  at  me,"  she  whispered  again. 

"I  am  looking." 

"Do  you  see?" 

"What?" 

"They  are  poor  Aunt  Abrahama's  jewels.  Aunt 
Sylvia  gave  them  to  me.  Aren't  they  beautiful? 
Such  lovely,  old-fashioned  settings.  You  can't  half 
see  in  the  moonlight.  You  shall  see  them  by  day.'' 

"It  is  beautiful  enough  now,"  said  Horace,  with  a 
sort  of  gasp.  "Those  are  pearls  around  your  neck?" 

"Yes,  really  lovely  pearls;  and  such  carved  pink 
coral!  And  look  at  the  dear  old  pearl  spray  in  my 
hair.  Wait;  I'll  turn  my  head  so  the  moon  will  show 
on  it.  Isn't  it  dear?" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  replied  Horace,  regarding  the  delicate 
spray  of  seed  pearls  on  Rose's  head. 

"And  only  look  at  these  bracelets  and  these  rings; 
and  I  had  to  tie  the  ear-rings  on  because  my  ears  are 
not  pierced.  Would  you  have  them  pierced  and 

215 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

wear  them  as  they  are — I  believe  ear-rings  are  coming 
into  vogue  again — or  would  you  have  them  made 
into  rings?" 

"Rings,"  said  Horace,  emphatically. 

"I  think  that  will  be  better.  I  fancy  the  ear-rings 
dangling  make  me  a  little  nervous  already.  See  all 
these  brooches,  and  the  rings." 

Rose  held  up  her  hands  and  twirled  her  ring-laden 
fingers,  and  laughed  again. 

"They  are  pretty  large,  most  of  the  rings,"  said 
she.  "There  is  one  pearl  and  one  emerald  that  are 
charming,  and  several  of  the  dearest  old-fashioned 
things.  Think  of  poor  Aunt  Abrahama  having  all 
these  lovely  things  packed  away  in  a  bureau  drawer 
and  never  wearing  them." 

"I  should  rather  have  packed  away  my  name," 
said  Horace. 

"So  should  I.  Isn't  it  awful?  The  Abrahama  is 
simply  dreadful,  and  the  way  it  comes  down  with  a 
sort  of  whack  on  the  White!  Poor  Aunt  Abrahama! 
I  feel  almost  guilty  having  all  her  pretty  jewels  and 
being  so  pleased  with  them." 

"Oh,  she  would  be  pleased,  too,  if  she  knew." 

"I  don't  know.  She  and  my  mother  had  been  es 
tranged  for  years,  ever  since  my  mother's  marriage. 
Would  she  be  pleased,  do  you  think?" 

"Of  course  she  would,  and  as  for  the  things  them 
selves,  they  are  fulfilling  their  mission." 

Rose  laughed.  "Maybe  jewels  don't  like  to  be 
shut  up  for  years  and  years  in  a  drawer,  away  from 
the  light,"  said  she.  "They  do  seem  almost  alive. 
Look,  you  can  really  see  the  green  in  that  emer 
ald!" 

216 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Horace  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  He  could 
hardly  reply. 

"Why,  you  are  shivering,"  said  Rose.  "Are  you 
cold?" 

"No — well,  perhaps  yes,  a  little.  It  is  rather  cool 
to-night  after  the  hot  day." 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

"I  walked  to  Tunbury  and  back." 

"That  is  seven  miles.  That  ought  to  have  warmed 
you.  Well,  I  think  we  must  go  in.  I  don't  know 
what  Aunt  Sylvia  would  say." 

"Why  should  she  mind?" 

"I  don't  know.  She  might  not  think  I  ^should 
have  run  out  here  as  I  did.  I  think  all  these 
jewels  went  to  my  head.  Come.  Please  walk  very 
softly." 

Horace  hesitated. 

"Come,"  repeated  Rose,  imperatively,  and  started. 

Horace  followed. 

The  night  before  they  had  been  on  the  verge  of  a 
love  scene,  now  it  seemed  impossible,  incongruous. 
Horace  was  full  of  tender  longing,  but  he  felt  that  to 
gratify  it  would  be  to  pass  the  impossible. 

"Please  be  very  still,"  whispered  Rose,  when  they 
had  reached  the  house  door.  She  herself  began  open 
ing  it,  turning  the  knob  by  slow  degrees.  All  the 
time  she  was  stifling  her  laughter.  Horace  felt  that 
that  stifled  laughter  was  the  main  factor  in  prohibit 
ing  the  love-making. 

Rose  turned  the  knob  and  removed  her  hand  as  she 
pushed  the  door  open;  then  something  fell  with  a 
tiny  tinkle  on  the  stone  step.  Both  stopped. 

"One  of  my  rings,"  whispered  Rose. 

15  217 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Horace  stooped  and  felt  over  the  stone  slab,  and 
finally  his  hand  struck  the  tiny  thing. 

"It's  that  queer  little  flat  gold  one,"  continued 
Rose,  who  was  now  serious. 

A  sudden  boldness  possessed  Horace.  "May  I 
have  it?"  he  said. 

"It's  not  a  bit  pretty.  I  don't  believe  you  can 
wear  it." 

Horace  slipped  the  ring  on  his  little  finger.  "It 
just  fits." 

"I  don't  care,"  Rose  said,  hesitatingly.  "Aunt 
Sylvia  gave  me  the  things.  I  don't  believe  she  will 
care.  And  there  are  two  more  flat  gold  rings,  any 
way.  She  will  not  notice,  only  perhaps  I  ought  to 
tell  her." 

"If  you  think  it  will  make  any  trouble  for  you — " 

"Oh  no;  keep  it.  It  is  interesting  because  it  is  old- 
fashioned,  and  as  far  as  giving  it  away  is  concerned, 
I  could  give  away  half  of  these  trinkets.  I  can't  go 
around  decked  out  like  this,  nor  begin  to  wear  all  the 
rings.  I  certainly  never  should  have  put  that  ring  on 
again." 

Horace  felt  daunted  by  her  light  valuation  of  it, 
but  when  he  was  in  the  house,  and  in  his  room,  and 
neither  Sylvia  nor  Henry  had  been  awakened,  he  re 
moved  the  thing  and  looked  at  it  closely.  All  the 
inner  surface  was  covered  with  a  clear  inscription, 
very  clear,  although  of  a  necessity  in  minute  char 
acters — "Let  love  abide  whate'er  betide." 

Horace  laughed  tenderly.  "She  has  given  me  more 
than  she  knows,"  he  thought. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HENRY  WHITMAN  awoke  the  next  morning  with 
sensations  of  delight  and  terror.  He  found  himself 
absolutely  unable  to  rouse  himself  up  to  that  pitch 
of  courage  necessary  to  tell  Sylvia  that  he  intended 
to  return  to  his  work  in  the  shop.  He  said  to  him 
self  that  it  would  be  better  to  allow  it  to  become  an 
accomplished  fact  before  she  knew  it,  that  it  would 
be  easier  for  him.  Luckily  for  his  plans,  the  family 
breakfasted  early. 

Directly  after  he  had  risen  from  the  table,  Henry 
attempted  to  slip  out  of  the  house  from  the  front 
door  without  Sylvia's  knowledge.  He  had  nearly 
reached  the  gate,  and  had  a  sensation  of  exultation 
like  a  child  playing  truant,  when  he  heard  Sylvia's 
voice. 

"Henry!"   she   called.     "Henry  Whitman!" 

Henry  turned  around  obediently. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Sylvia. 

She  stood  under  the  columns  of  the  front  porch,  a 
meagre  little  figure  of  a  woman  dressed  with  severe 
and  immaculate  cheapness  in  a  purple  calico  wrapper, 
with  a  checked  gingham  apron  tied  in  a  prim  bow  at 
her  back.  Her  hair  was  very  smooth.  She  was  New 
England  austerity  and  conservatism  embodied.  She 
was  terrifying,  although  it  would  have  puzzled  any- 

219 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

body  to  have  told  why.  Certain  it  was  that  no  man 
would  have  had  the  temerity  to  contest  her  authority 
as  she  stood  there.  Henry  waited  near  the  gate. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Sylvia  again. 

"Down  street,"  replied  Henry. 

"Whereabouts  down  street?" 

Henry  said  again,  with  a  meek  doggedness,  "Down 
street." 

"Come  here,"  said  Sylvia. 

Henry  walked  slowly  towards  her,  between  the 
rows  of  box.  He  was  about  three  feet  away  when  she 
spoke  again.  "Where  are  you  going?"  said  she. 

"Down  street." 

Sylvia  looked  at  Henry,  and  he  trembled  inwardly. 
Had  she  any  suspicion?  When  she  spoke  an  im 
mense  relief  overspread  him.  "I  wish  you'd  go  into 
the  drug  store  and  get  me  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of 
peppermints,"  said  she. 

Then  Henry  knew  that  he  had  the  best  of  it. 
Sylvia  possessed  what  she  considered  an  almost 
guilty  weakness  for  peppermints.  She  never  bought 
them  herself,  or  asked  him  to  buy  them,  without  feel 
ing  humiliated.  Her  austere  and  dictatorial  manner 
vanished  at  the  moment  she  preferred  the  request 
for  peppermints. 

"Of  course  I'll  get  them,"  said  Henry,  with  en 
thusiasm.  He  mentally  resolved  upon  a  pound  in 
stead  of  a  quarter. 

"I  don't  feel  quite  right  in  my  stomach,  and  I 
think  they're  good  for  me,"  said  Sylvia,  still  ab 
jectly.  Then  she  turned  and  went  into  the  house. 
Henry  started  afresh.  He  felt  renewed  compunction 
at  his  deceit  as  he  went  on.  It  seemed  hard  to  go 

220 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

against  the  wishes  of  that  poor,  little,  narrow-chested 
woman  who  had  had  so  little  in  life  that  a  quarter  of 
a  pound  of  peppermints  seemed  too  much  for  her  to 
desire. 

But  Henry  realized  that  he  had  not  the  courage 
to  tell  her.  He  went  on.  He  had  just  about  time 
to  reach  the  shop  before  the  whistle  blew.  As  he 
neared  the  shop  he  became  one  of  a  stream  of  toilers 
pressing  towards  the  same  goal.  Most  of  them  were 
younger  than  he,  and  it  was  safe  to  assume  none  were 
going  to  work  with  the  same  enthusiasm.  There 
were  many  weary,  rebellious  faces.  They  had  not 
yet  come  to  Henry's  pass.  Toil  had  not  yet  gotten 
the  better  of  their  freedom  of  spirit.  They  considered 
that  they  could  think  and  live  to  better  purpose  with 
out  it.  Henry  had  become  its  slave.  He  was  his 
true  self  only  when  under  the  conditions  of  his  slavery. 
He  had  toiled  a  few  years  longer  than  he  should  have 
done,  to  attain  the  ability  to  keep  his  head  above  the 
waters  of  life  without  toil.  The  mechanical  motion 
of  his  hands  at  their  task  of  years  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  him.  He  had  become,  in  fact,  as  a 
machine,  which  rusts  and  is  good  for  nothing  if  left 
long  inactive.  Henry  was  at  once  pitiable  and 
terrible  when  he  came  in  sight  of  the  many- windowed 
building  which  was  his  goal.  The  whistles  blew, 
and  he  heard  as  an  old  war-horse  hears  the  summons 
to  battle.  But  in  his  case  the  battle  was  all  for 
naught  and  there  was  no  victory  to  be  won.  But 
the  man  was  happier  than  he  had  been  for  months. 
His  happiness  was  a  pity  and  a  shame  to  him,  but  it 
was  happiness,  and  sweet  in  his  soul.  It  was  the 
only  happiness  which  he  had  not  become  too  callous 

221 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

to  feel.  If  only  he  could  have  lived  in  the  beautiful 
old  home,  and  spent  the  rest  of  his  life  in  prideful 
wrestling  with  the  soil  for  goodly  crops,  in  tasting  the 
peace  of  life  which  is  the  right  of  those  who  have 
worked  long! 

But  it  all  seemed  too  late.  When  a  man  has  be 
come  welded  to  toil  he  can  never  separate  himself 
from  it  without  distress  and  loss  of  his  own  substance 
of  individuality.  What  Henry  had  told  Sidney 
Meeks  was  entirely  true:  good-fortune  had  come  too 
late  for  him  to  reap  the  physical  and  spiritual  benefit 
from  it  which  is  its  usual  dividend.  He  was  no 
longer  his  own  man,  but  the  man  of  his  life-ex 
perience. 

When  he  stood  once  more  in  his  old  place,  cutting 
the  leather  which  smelled  to  him  sweeter  than  roses, 
he  was  assailed  by  many  a  gibe,  good-natured  in  a 
way,  but  still  critical. 

"What  are  you  to  work  again  for,  Henry?" 
"You've  got  money  enough  to  live  on."  "What  in 
thunder  are  you  working  for?" 

One  thing  was  said  many  times  which  hit  him 
hard.  "You  are  taking  the  bread  out  of  the  mouth 
of  some  other  man  who  needs  work;  don't  you  know 
it,  Henry?"  That  rankled.  Otherwise  Henry,  at 
his  old  task,  with  his  mind  set  free  by  the  toil  of  his 
hands,  might  have  been  entirely  happy. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  said,  at  length,  to  the  man  at  his 
side,  a  middle-aged  man  with  a  blackened,  sardonic 
face  and  a  forehead  lined  with  a  scowl  of  rebellion, 
"do  you  suppose  I  do  it  for  the  money?  I  tell  you 
it's  for  the  work." 

"The  work!"  sneered  the  other  man. 
222 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  tell  you  I've  worked  so  long  I  can't  stop,  and 
live." 

The  other  man  stared.  "Either  you're  a  damned 
fool,  or  the  men  or  the  system — whatever  it  is  that 
has  worked  you  so  long  that  you  can't  stop — ought 
to  go  to — "  he  growled. 

<;You  can't  shake  off  a  burden  that's  grown  to 
you,"  said  Henry. 

The  worker  on  Henry's  other  side  was  a  mere  boy, 
but  he  had  a  bulging  forehead  and  a  square  chin,  and 
already  figured  in  labor  circles. 

"As  soon  try  to  shake  off  a  hump,"  he  said,  and 
nodded. 

"Yes,"  said  Henry.  "When  you've  lived  long 
enough  in  one  sort  of  a  world  it  settles  onto  your 
shoulders,  and  nothing  but  death  can  ease  a  man 
from  the  weight  of  it." 

"That's  so,"  said  the  boy. 

"But  as  far  as  keeping  the  bread  from  another  man 
goes — "  said  Henry.  Then  he  hesitated.  He  was 
tainted  by  the  greed  for  unnecessary  money,  in  spite 
of  his  avowal  to  the  contrary.  That  also  had  come 
to  be  a  part  of  him.  Then  he  continued,  "As  far  as 
that  goes,  I'm  willing  to  give  away — a — good  part  of 
what  I  earn." 

The  first  man  laughed,  harshly.  "He'll  be  for 
giving  a  library  to  East  Westland  next,  to  make  up 
to  men  for  having  their  money  and  freedom  in  his 
own  pockets,"  he  said. 

"I  'ain't  got  so  much  as  all  that,  after  all,"  said 
Henry.  "Because  my  wife  has  had  a  little  left  to  her, 
it  don't  follow  that  we  are  millionaires." 

"I  guess  you  are  pretty  well  fixed.  You  don't 
223 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

need  to  work,  and  you  know  it.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself.  There's  my  wife's  brother 
can't  get  a  job." 

"Good  reason  why,"  said  the  boy  on  the  other 
side.  "He  drinks." 

"He  drinks  every  time  he  gets  out  of  work  and  gets 
clean  discouraged,"  retorted  the  man. 

"Well,"  said  the  boy,  "you  know  me  well  enough 
to  know  that  I'm  with  my  class  every  time,  but  hang 
ed  if  I  can  see  why  your  wife's  brother  'ain't  got  into 
a  circle  that  there's  no  getting  him  out  of.  We've 
got  to  get  out  of  work  sometimes.  We  all  know  it. 
We've  got  to  if  we  don't  want  humps  on  all  our 
shoulders;  and  if  Jim  can't  live  up  to  his  indepen 
dence,  why,  he's  out  of  the  running,  or,  rather,  in  his 
own  running  so  neither  God  nor  man  can  get  him  out 
of  it.  You  know  the  time  that  last  strike  was  on 
he  was  in  the  gutter  every  day,  when  he  could  beg 
enough  money  to  keep  him  there.  Now,  we  can't 
have  that  sort  of  thing.  When  a  man's  got  so  he 
can't  work  nor  fight  neither,  why,  he's  up  against  it. 
If  Henry  here  gave  up  his  job,  Jim  couldn't  get  it, 
and  you  know  it." 

Henry  went  on.  He  hardly  heard  now  what  they 
were  saying.  His  mind  was  revelling  in  its  free 
flights  of  rebellion  against  everything.  Henry,  for 
a  man  who  kept  the  commandments,  was  again  as 
wicked  as  he  could  be,  and  revelling  in  his  wickedness. 
He  was  like  a  drinker  returned  to  his  cups.  His  joy 
was  immense,  but  unholy.  However,  the  accusation 
that  he  was  taking  bread  from  another  man  who 
needed  it  more  than  he  still  rankled.  He  could,  after 
all,  rise  somewhat  above  mere  greed.  He  resolved 

224 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

that  he  would  give,  and  no  one  should  know  of  his 
giving,  to  the  family  of  the  man  Jim  who  had  no 
work. 

During  the  morning  Henry  did  not  trouble  him 
self  about  Sylvia  and  what  she  would  think  about  it 
all.  Towards  noon,  however,  he  began  to  dread 
going  home  and  facing  her.  When  he  started  he 
felt  fairly  cowardly.  He  stopped  at  the  drug  store 
and  bought  a  pound  of  peppermints. 

Albion  Bennet  waited  on  him.  Albion  Bennet  was 
an  intensely  black-haired  man  in  his  forties.  His 
black  hair  was  always  sleek  with  a  patent  hair-oil 
which  he  carried  in  his  stock.  He  always  wore  a  red 
tie  and  an  old-fashioned  scarf-pin  set  with  a  tiny 
diamond,  and  his  collars  were  made  of  celluloid. 

"I  have  gone  back  to  the  hotel  to  board,"  he  in 
formed  Henry,  while  tying  up  the  parcel.  He  colored 
a  little  under  his  black,  bristling  cheeks  as  he  spoke. 

"I  thought  you  left,"  said  Henry. 

"So  I  did.  I  went  to  board  at  the  Joneses',  but — 
I  can't  stand  a  girl  right  in  my  face  and  eyes  all  the 
time.  When  I  want  to  get  married,  and  see  the  right 
one,  then  I  want  to  do  the  courting;  but  hang  it  if  I 
can  stand  being  courted,  and  that's  what  I've  been 
up  against  ever  since  I  left  the  hotel,  and  that's  a 
fact.  Susy  Jones  was  enough,  but  when  it  came  to 
Fanny  Elliot  getting  thick  with  her,  and  both  of 
them  on  hand,  it  was  too  much.  But  I  stuck  it  out 
till  Susy  began  to  do  the  cooking  and  her  mother 
made  me  eat  it." 

"I  have  heard  Miss  Hart  wasn't  a  very  good  cook," 
said  Henry. 

"Well,  she  ain't  anything  to  brag  of;  but  say,  a 
22; 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

man  can  stand  regulation  cooking  done  bad,  but 
when  it  comes  to  new-fangled  messes  done  bad,  so 
a  man  don't  know  what  he's  eating,  whether  it's  cats 
or  poisonous  mushrooms,  I  draw  the  line.  Miss 
Hart's  bread  is  most  generally  saleratusy  and  heavy, 
but  at  least  you  know  it's  heavy  bread,  and  I  got 
heavy  stuff  at  the  Joneses'  and  didn't  know  what  it 
was.  And  Miss  Hart's  pies  are  tough,  but  you  know 
you've  got  tough  pies,  and  at  the  Joneses'  I  had  tough 
things  that  I  couldn't  give  a  name  to.  Miss  Hart's 
doughnuts  are  greasy,  but  Lord,  the  greasy  things 
at  the  Joneses'  that  Susy  made !  At  least  you  know 
what  you've  got  when  you  eat  a  greasy  doughnut, 
and  if  it  hurts  you  you  know  what  to  tell  the  doctor, 
but  I  had  to  give  it  up.  I'd  rather  have  bad  cooking 
and  know  what  it  is  than  bad  cooking  and  know 
what  it  isn't.  Then  there  were  other  things.  I  like, 
when  I  get  home  from  the  store,  to  have  a  little  quiet 
and  read  my  paper,  and  Susy  and  Fanny,  if  I  didn't 
stay  in  the  parlor,  were  banging  the  piano  and  sing 
ing  at  me  all  the  time  to  get  me  down-stairs.  So  I've 
gone  back  to  the  hotel,  and  I'm  enough  sight  better 
off.  Of  course,  when  that  matter  of  Miss  Parrel 
came  up  I  left.  A  man  don't  want  to  think  he  may 
get  a  little  arsenic  mixed  in  with  the  bad  cooking, 
but  now  I'm  convinced  that's  all  right." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  Henry,  paying  for  the 
peppermints.  "I  never  thought  Miss  Hart  had  any 
thing  to  do  with  it  myself,  but  of  course  she  wasn't 
exactly  acquitted,  neither  she  nor  the  girl.  You  said 
yourself  that  she  bought  arsenic  here." 

"So  she  did,  and  it  all  went  to  kill  rats,"  said 
Albion.  "Lots  of  folks  have  bought  arsenic  here  to 

226 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

kill  rats  with.  They  didn't  all  of  them  poison  Miss 
Parrel."  Albion  nodded  wisely  and  mysteriously. 
"No,  Lucinda's  all  right,"  he  said.  "I  ain't  at  liberty 
to  say  how  I  know,  but  I  do  know.  I  may  get  bad 
cooking  at  the  hotel,  but  I  won't  get  no  arsenic." 

Henry  looked  curiously  at  the  other  man.  "So 
you've  found  out  something?"  he  said. 

"I  ain't  at  liberty  to  say,"  replied  Albion.  "It's 
a  pretty  nice  day,  ain't  it?  Hope  we  ain't  going  to 
have  such  a  hot  summer  as  last,  though  hot  weather 
is  mighty  good  for  my  business,  since  I  put  in  the 
soda-fountain." 

Henry,  walking  homeward  with  his  package  of 
peppermints,  speculated  a  little  on  what  Albion  Ben- 
net  had  said;  then  his  mind  reverted  to  his  anxiety 
with  regard  to  Sylvia,  and  her  discovery  that  he  had 
returned  to  the  shop.  He  passed  his  arm  across  his 
face  and  sniffed  at  his  coat-sleeve.  He  wondered  if 
he  smelled  of  leather.  He  planned  to  go  around  to  the 
kitchen  door  and  wash  his  hands  at  the  pump  in  the 
yard  before  entering  the  house,  but  he  could  not  be 
sure  about  the  leather.  He  wondered  if  Rose  would 
notice  it  and  be  disgusted.  His  heart  sank  as  he 
neared  home.  He  sniffed  at  his  coat-sleeve  again. 
He  wondered  if  he  could  possibly  slip  into  the  bed 
room  and  put  on  another  coat  for  dinner  before  Sylvia 
saw  him.  He  doubted  if  he  could  manage  to  get 
away  unnoticed  after  dinner.  He  speculated,  if 
Sylvia  asked  him  where  he  was  going  again,  what  he 
could  say.  He  considered  what  he  could  say  if  she 
were  to  call  him  to  account  for  his  long  absence  that 
forenoon. 

When  he  reached  the  house  he  entered  the  side 
227 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

yard,  stopped  at  the  pump,  washed  his  hands  and 
dried  them  on  his  handkerchief,  and  drank  from  the 
tin  cup  chained  to  the  pump-nose.  He  thought  he 
might  enter  by  the  front  door  and  steal  into  his  bed 
room  and  get  the  other  coat,  but  Sylvia  came  to  the 
side  door. 

"Where  in  the  world  have  you  been?"  she  said. 
Henry  advanced,  smiling,  with  the  peppermints. 
"Why,  Henry,"  she  cried,  in  a  voice  of  dismay 
which  had  a  gratified  ring  in  it,  "you've  been  and 
bought  a  whole  pound!  I  only  said  to  buy  a  quar 
ter." 

"They're  good  for  you,"  said  Henry,  entering  the 
door. 

Sylvia  could  not  wait,  and  put  one  of  the  sweets 
in  her  mouth,  and  to  that  Henry  owed  his  respite. 
Sylvia,  eating  peppermint,  was  oblivious  to  leather. 

Henry  went  through  into  the  bedroom  and  put  on 
another  coat  before  he  sat  down  at  the  dinner-table. 

Sylvia  noticed  that.  "What  did  you  change  your 
coat  for?"  said  she. 

Henry  shivered  as  if  with  cold.  "I  thought  the 
house  seemed  kind  of  damp  when  I  came  in,"  he  said, 
"and  this  coat  is  some  heavier." 

Sylvia  looked  at  him  with  fretful  anxiety.  "You've 
got  cold.  I  knew  you  would,"  she  said.  "You  stayed 
out  late  last  night,  and  the  dew  was  awful  heavy.  I 
knew  you  would  catch  cold.  You  had  better  stop  at 
the  drug  store  and  get  some  of  those  pellets  that  Dr. 
Wallace  puts  up." 

Again  was  Henry's  way  made  plain  for  him.  "Per 
haps  I  had,"  said  he,  eagerly.  "I'll  go  down  and  get 
some  after  dinner." 

228 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

But  Horace  innocently  offered  to  save  him  the 
trouble.  "I  go  past  the  drug  store,"  said  he.  "Let 
me  get  them." 

But  Sylvia  unexpectedly  came  to  Henry's  aid. 
"No,"  she  said.  "I  think  you  had  better  not  wait 
till  Mr.  Allen  comes  home  from  school.  Dr.  Wallace 
says  those  pellets  ought  to  be  taken  right  away,  just 
as  soon  as  you  feel  a  cold,  to  have  them  do  any 
good." 

Henry  brightened,  but  Rose  interposed.  "Why,  I 
would  love  to  run  down  to  the  drug  store  and  get 
the  medicine,"  she  said.  "You  lie  down  after  dinner, 
Uncle  Henry,  and  I'll  go." 

Henry  cast  an  agonizing  glance  at  Horace.  The 
young  man  did  not  understand  in  the  least  what  it 
meant,  but  he  came  to  the  rescue. 

"The  last  time  I  took  those  pellets,"  he  said,  "Mr. 
Whitman  got  them  for  me.  It  was  one  Saturday, 
and  I  was  home,  and  felt  the  cold  coming  on,  and  I 
lay  down,  just  as  you  suggest  Mr.  Whitman's  doing, 
and  got  asleep,  and  awoke  with  a  chill.  I  think  that 
if  one  has  a  cold  the  best  thing  is  to  keep  exercising 
until  you  can  get  hold  of  a  remedy.  I  think  if  Mr. 
Whitman  walks  down  to  the  drug  store  himself  and 
gets  the  pellets,  and  takes  one,  and  keeps  out  in  the 
open  air  afterwards,  as  it  is  a  fine  day,  it  will  be  the 
very  best  thing  for  him." 

"That  is  just  what  I  think  myself,"  said  Henry, 
with  a  grateful  look  at  Horace. 

Henry  changed  his  coat  again  before  leaving,  on 
the  plea  that  it  was  better  for  him  to  wear  a  lighter 
one  when  walking  and  the  heavier  one  when  he  was 
in  the  house.  He  and  Horace  walked  down  the  street 

229 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

together.     They  were  out  of  sight  of  the  house  when 
Henry  spoke. 

"Mrs.  Whitman  don't  know  it  yet,"  said  he,  "but 
there's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't.  I  'ain't  got  any 
cold.  I'll  get  the  pellets  to  satisfy  her,  but  I  'ain't 
got  any  cold.  I  wanted  to  get  out  again  and  not 
tell  her,  if  I  could  help  it,  I  didn't  want  a  fuss.  I'm 
going  to  put  it  off  as  long  as  I  can.  Mrs.  Whitman's 
none  too  strong,  and  when  anything  goes  against  her 
she's  all  used  up,  and  I  must  save  her  as  long  as  pos 
sible." 

Horace  stared  at  Henry  with  some  alarm.  "What 
on  earth  is  it?"  he  said. 

"Nothing,  only  I  have  gone  back  to  work  in  the 
shop." 

Horace  looked  amazed.     "But  I  thought — " 

"You  thought  we  had  enough  so  I  hadn't  any  need 
to  work,  and  you  are  right,"  said  Henry,  with  a 
pathetic  firmness.  "We  have  got  property  enough 
to  keep  us,  if  nothing  happens,  as  long  as  we  live,  but 
I  had  to  go  back  to  that  infernal  treadmill  or  die." 

Horace  nodded  soberly.  "I  think  I  understand," 
said  he. 

"I'm  glad  you  do." 

"But  Mrs.  Whitman—" 

"Oh,  poor  Sylvia  will  take  it  hard,  and  she  won't 
understand.  Women  don't  understand  a  lot  of 
things.  But  I  can't  help  it.  I'll  keep  it  from  her 
for  a  day  or  two.  She'll  have  to  hear  of  it  before 
long.  You  don't  think  Rose  will  mind  the  leather 
smell?"  concluded  Henry. 

"I  wouldn't  worry  about  that.  There  is  nothing 
very  disagreeable  about  it,"  Horace  replied,  laughing. 

230 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  will  always  change  my  coat  and  wash  my  hands 
real  particular  before  I  set  down  to  the  table,"  said 
Henry,  wistfully.  Then  he  added,  after  a  second's 
hesitation:  "You  don't  think  she  will  think  any  the 
less  of  me?  You  don't  suppose  she  won't  be  willing 
to  live  in  the  house  because  I  work  in  the  shop?" 

"You  mean  Rose — Miss  Fletcher?" 

"Yes;  of  course  she's  been  brought  up  different. 
She  don't  know  anything  about  people's  working 
with  their  hands.  She's  been  brought  up  to  think 
they're  beneath  her.  I  suppose  it's  never  entered 
into  the  child's  head  that  she  would  live  to  set  at  the 
same  table  with  a  man  who  works  in  a  shoe-shop. 
You  don't  suppose  it  will  set  her  against  me?" 

"I  think  even  if  she  has  been  brought  up  different 
ly,  as  you  say,  that  she  has  a  great  deal  of  sense," 
replied  Horace.  "I  don't  think  you  need  to  worry 
about  that." 

"I'm  glad  you  don't.  I  guess  it  would  about  break 
Sylvia's  heart  to  lose  her  now,  and  I've  got  so  I  set 
a  good  deal  by  the  child  myself.  Mr.  Allen,  I  want 
to  ask  you  something." 

Henry  paused,  and  Horace  waited. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  if  you've  noticed  anything 
queer  about  Sylvia  lately,"  Henry  said,  at  last. 

Horace  looked  at  him.  "Do  you  mean  in  her  looks 
or  her  manners?" 

"Both." 

Horace  hesitated  in  his  turn.  "Now  you  speak  of 
it — "  he  began. 

"Well,"  said  Henry,  "speak  out  just  what  you 
think." 

"I  have  not  been  sure  that  there  was  anything 
231 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

definite,"   Horace  said,   slowly.     "I  have  not  been 
sure  that  it  was  not  all  imagination  on  my  part." 

"That's  just  the  way  I've  been  feeling,"  Henry 
said,  eagerly.  "What  is  it  that  you've  been  notic 
ing?" 

"  I  told  you  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  not  all  imagina 
tion,  but — " 

"What?" 

"Well,  sometimes  your  wife  has  given  me  the  im 
pression  that  she  was  brooding  over  something  that 
she  was  keeping  entirely  to  herself.  She  has  had  a 
look  as  if  she  had  her  eyes  turned  inward  and  was 
worrying  over  what  she  saw.  I  don't  know  that  you 
understand  what  I  mean  by  that?" 

Henry  nodded.  "That's  just  the  way  Sylvia's 
been  looking  to  me." 

"I  don't  know  but  she  looks  as  well  as  ever." 

"She's  grown  thin." 

"Maybe  she  has.  Sometimes  I  have  thought  that, 
but  what  I  have  noticed  has  been  something  intangi 
ble  in  her  manner  and  expression,  that  I  thought  was 
there  one  minute  and  was  not  at  all  sure  about  the 
next.  I  haven't  known  whether  the  trouble,  or  dif 
ference,  as  perhaps  I  had  better  put  it,  was  with  her 
or  myself." 

Henry  nodded  still  more  emphatically.  "That's 
just  the  way  it's  seemed  to  me,  and  we  'ain't  either 
of  us  imagined  it.  It's  so,"  said  he. 

"Have  you  any  idea — " 

"No,  I  haven't  the  least.  But  my  wife's  got  some 
thing  on  her  mind,  and  she's  had  something  on  her 
mind  for  a  long  time.  It  ain't  anything  new." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  her?" 
232 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  have  asked  her,  and  she  says  that  of  course  she's 
got  something  on  her  mind,  that  she  ain't  a  fool.  You 
can't  get  around  Sylvia.  She  never  would  tell  any 
thing  unless  she  wanted  to.  She  ain't  like  most 
women." 

Just  then  Horace  tuined  the  corner  of  the  street 
leading  to  his  school,  and  the  conversation  ceased, 
with  an  enjoinder  on  his  part  to  Henry  not  to  be  dis 
turbed  about  it,  as  he  did  not  think  it  could  be  any 
thing  serious. 

Henry's  reply  rang  back  as  the  two  men  went  their 
different  ways.  "I  don't  suppose  it  can  be  anything 
serious,"  he  said,  almost  angrily. 

Horace,  however,  was  disposed  to  differ  with  him. 
He  argued  that  a  woman  of  Sylvia  Whitman's  type 
does  not  change  her  manner  and  grow  introspective 
for  nothing.  He  was  inclined  to  think  there  might 
be  something  rather  serious  at  the  bottom  of  it  all. 
His  imagination,  however,  pictured  some  disease, 
which  she  was  concealing  from  all  about  her,  but 
which  caused  her  never-ceasing  anxiety  and  perhaps 
pain. 

That  night  he  looked  critically  at  her  and  was 
rather  confirmed  in  his  opinion.  Sylvia  had  certainly 
grown  thin,  and  the  lines  in  her  face  had  deepened 
into  furrows.  She  looked  much  older  than  she  had 
done  before  she  had  received  her  inheritance.  At  the 
same  time  she  puzzled  Horace  by  looking  happier, 
albeit  in  a  struggling  sort  of  fashion.  Either  Rose  or 
the  inheritance  was  the  cause  of  the  happiness. 
Horace  was  inclined  to  think  it  was  Rose,  especially 
since  she  seemed  to  him  more  than  ever  the  source 
of  all  happiness  and  further  from  his  reach. 
16  233 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

That  night  he  had  found  in  the  post-office  a  story 
of  whose  acceptance  he  had  been  almost  sure,  accom 
panied  by  the  miserable  little  formula  which  arouses 
at  once  wrath  and  humiliation.  Horace  tore  it  up 
and  threw  the  pieces  along  the  road.  There  was  a 
thunder-shower  coming  up.  It  scattered  the  few 
blossoms  remaining  on  the  trees,  and  many  leaves, 
and  the  bits  of  the  civilly  hypocritical  note  of  thanks 
and  rejection  flew  with  them  upon  the  wings  of  the 
storm  wind. 

Horace  gazed  up  at  the  clouds  overhead,  which 
looked  like  the  rapids  of  some  terrible,  heavenly 
river  overlapping  each  other  in  shell-like  shapes 
and  moving  with  intense  fury.  He  thought  of  Rose, 
and  first  hoped  that  she  was  in  the  house,  and  then 
reflected  that  he  might  as  well  give  up  all  hope  of 
ever  marrying  her.  The  returned  manuscript  in  his 
pocket  seemed  to  weigh  down  his  very  soul.  He  recalled 
various  stories  which  he  had  read  in  the  current  maga 
zines  of  late,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  compared 
very  favorably  with  them.  He  tried  to  think  of  the 
matter  judicially,  as  if  the  rejected  story  were  not  his 
own,  and  felt  justified  in  thinking  well  of  it.  He  had 
a  sickening  sense  of  being  pitted  against  something 
which  he  could  not  gainsay,  which  his  own  convic 
tions  as  to  the  privilege  of  persons  in  authority  to  have 
their  own  opinions  forbade  him  to  question. 

"The  editors  had  a  perfect  right  to  return  my  story, 
even  if  it  is  every  whit  as  worthy  of  publication,  even 
worthier,  than  anything  which  has  appeared  in  their 
magazine  for  a  twelvemonth,"  he  told  himself. 

He  realized  that  he  was  not  dependent  upon  the 
public  concerning  the  merit  of  his  work — he  could  not 

234 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

be  until  the  work  appeared  in  print — but  he  was  com 
bating  the  opinions  (or  appealing  to  them)  of  a  few 
men  whose  critical  abilities  might  be  biassed  by  a 
thousand  personal  matters  with  which  he  could  not 
interfere.  He  felt  that  there  was  a  broad,  general 
injustice  in  the  situation,  but  absolute  right  as  to 
facts.  These  were  men  to  whom  was  given  the  power 
to  accept  or  refuse.  No  one  could  question  their  right 
to  use  that  power.  Horace  said  to  himself  that  he 
was  probably  a  fool  to  entertain  for  a  moment  any 
hope  of  success  under  such  conditions. 

"Good  Lord!  It  might  depend  upon  whether  the 
readers  had  indigestion,"  he  thought;  and  at  the 
same  time  he  accepted  the  situation  with  a  philosophic 
pride  of  surrender. 

"It's  about  one  chance  in  a  good  many  thousand," 
he  told  himself.  "If  I  don't  get  the  chance  some 
other  fellow  does,  and  there's  no  mortal  way  but  to 
make  the  best  of  it,  unless  I  act  like  a  fool  myself." 
Horace  was  exceedingly  alive  to  the  lack  of  dignity 
of  one  who  kicked  against  the  pricks.  He  said  to 
himself  that  if  he  could  not  marry  Rose,  if  he  could 
not  ask  her  why,  he  must  accept  his  fate,  not  attack 
it  to  his  own  undoing,  nor  even  deplore  it  to  his 
ignominy. 

In  all  this  he  was,  rather  curiously,  leaving  the  girl 
and  her  possible  view  of  the  matter  entirely  out  of 
the  question.  Horace,  while  he  was  not  in  the  least 
self-deprecatory,  and  was  disposed  to  be  as  just  in 
his  estimate  of  himself  as  of  other  men,  was  not 
egotistical.  It  did  not  really  occur  to  him  that  Rose's 
fancy,  too,  might  have  been  awakened  as  his  own  had 
been,  that  he  might  cause  her  suffering.  It  went  to 

235 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

prove  his  unselfishness  that,  upon  entering  the  house, 
and  seeing  Rose  seated  beside  a  window  with  her 
embroidery,  his  first  feeling  was  of  satisfaction  that 
she  was  housed  and  safe  from  the  fast-gathering 
storm. 

Rose  looked  up  as  he  entered,  and  smiled. 

"There's  a  storm  overhead,"  remarked  Horace. 

"Yes,"  said  Rose.  "Aunt  Sylvia  has  just  told  me 
I  ought  not  to  use  a  needle,  with  so  much  lightning. 
She  has  been  telling  me  about  a  woman  who  was 
sewing  in  a  thunder-storm,  and  the  needle  was  driven 
into  her  hand."  Rose  laughed,  but  as  she  spoke 
she  quilted  her  needle  into  her  work  and  tossed  it 
on  a  table,  got  up,  and  went  to  the  window. 

"It  looks  almost  wild  enough  for  a  cyclone,"  she 
said,  gazing  up  at  the  rapid  scud  of  gray,  shell-like 
clouds. 

"Rose,  come  right  away  from  that  window,"  cried 
Sylvia,  entering  from  the  dining-room.  "Only  last 
summer  a  woman  in  Alford  got  struck  standing  at 
a  window  in  a  tempest." 

"I  want  to  look  at  the  clouds,"  said  Rose,  but  she 
obeyed. 

Sylvia  put  a  chair  away  from  the  fireplace  and  out 
of  any  draught.  "Here,"  said  she.  "Set  down 
here."  She  drew  up  another  chair  close  beside  Rose 
and  sat  down.  There  came  a  flash  of  lightning  and 
a  terrible  crash  of  thunder.  A  blind  slammed  some 
where.  Out  in  the  great  front  yard  the  rain  swirled 
in  misty  columns,  like  ghostly  dancers,  and  the  flow 
ering  shrubs  lashed  the  ground.  Horace  watched  it 
until  Sylvia  called  him,  also,  to  what  she  considered 
a  place  of  safety.  "If  you  don't  come  away  from 

236 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

that  window  and  set  on  the  sofa  I  shall  have  a 
conniption  fit,"  she  said.  Horace  obeyed.  As  he 
sat  down  he  thought  of  Henry,  and  without  stopping 
to  think,  inquired  where  he  was. 

"He  went  down  to  Mr.  Meeks's,"  replied  Sylvia, 
with  calm  decision. 

Horace  stared  at  her.  He  wondered  if  she  could 
possibly  be  lying,  or  if  she  really  believed  what  she 
said. 

He  did  not  know  what  had  happened  that  after 
noon;  neither  did  Rose.  Rose  had  gone  out  for  a 
walk,  and  while  Sylvia  was  alone  a  caller,  Mrs.  Jim 
Jones,  had  come.  Mrs.  Jim  Jones  was  a  very  small, 
angry-looking  woman.  Nature  had  apparently  in 
tended  her  to  be  plump  and  sweet  and  rosy,  and  al 
together  comfortable,  but  she  had  flown  in  the  face 
of  nature,  like  a  cross  hen,  and  had  her  own  way  with 
herself. 

It  was  scarcely  conceivable  that  Mrs.  Jim  Jones 
could  be  all  the  time  in  the  state  of  wrath  against 
everything  in  general  which  her  sharp  tongue  and  her 
angry  voice  evinced,  but  she  gave  that  impression. 
Her  little  blond  face  looked  like  that  of  a  doll  which 
has  been  covered  with  angry  pin-scratches  by  an  ill- 
tempered  child.  Whenever  she  spoke  these  scratches 
deepened. 

Mrs.  Jim  Jones  could  not  bring  herself  to  speak 
of  anything  without  a  show  of  temper,  whether  she 
really  felt  it  or  not.  She  fairly  lashed  out  at  Sylvia 
when  the  latter  inquired  if  it  was  true  that  Albion 
Bennet  had  left  her  house  and  returned  to  the  hotel. 

"Yes,  it  is  true,  and  thank  the  Lord  for  His  un 
speakable  mercy  to  the  children  of  men.  I  couldn't 

237 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

have  stood  that  man  much  longer,  and  that's  the 
gospel  truth.  He  ate  like  a  pig,  so  there  wasn't  a 
mite  of  profit  in  it.  And  he  was  as  fussy  as  any  old 
maid  I  ever  saw.  If  I  have  to  choose  between  an  old 
maid  and  an  old  batch  for  a  boarder,  give  me  the  old 
maid  every  time.  She  don't  begin  to  eat  so  much, 
and  she  takes  care  of  her  room.  Albion  Bennet  about 
ruined  my  spare  chamber.  He  et  peanuts  every 
Sunday,  and  they're  all  ground  into  the  carpet.  Yes, 
I'm  mighty  glad  to  get  rid  of  him.  Let  alone  every 
thing  else,  the  way  he  pestered  my  Susy  was  enough 
to  make  me  sick  of  my  bargain.  There  that  poor 
child  got  so  she  tagged  me  all  over  the  house  for  fear 
Albion  Bennet  would  make  love  to  her.  I  guess 
Susy  ain't  going  to  take  up  with  a  man  like  Albion 
Bennet.  He's  too  old  for  her  anyhow,  and  I  don't 
believe  he  makes  much  out  of  his  drug  store.  I  rather 
guess  Susy  looks  higher  than  that.  Yes,  he's  gone, 
and  it's  'good  riddance,  bad  rubbish.'" 

"If  you  feel  so  about  it  I'm  glad  he's  gone  back 
to  Lucinda,"  said  Sylvia.  "She  didn't  have  many 
steady  boarders,  and  it  did  sort  of  look  against  her, 
poor  thing,  with  all  the  mean  talk  there's  been." 

"I  guess  there  wasn't  quite  so  much  smoke  without 
a  little  fire,"  said  Mrs.  Jim  Jones,  and  her  small  face 
looked  fairly  evil. 

Then  Sylvia  was  aroused.  "Now,  Mrs.  Jones,  you 
know  better,"  said  she.  "You  know  as  well  as  you 
want  to  that  Lucinda  Hart  was  no  more  guilty  than 
you  and  I  were.  We  both  went  to  school  with  her." 

Mrs.  Jim  Jones  backed  down  a  little.  There  was 
something  about  Sylvia  Whitman  when  she  was 
aroused  that  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Jones's  type  could  not 

238 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

face  with  impunity.  "Well,  I  don't  pretend  to 
know,"  said  she,  with  angry  sullenness. 

"You  pretended  to  know  just  now.  If  folks  don't 
know,  it  seems  to  me  the  best  thing  they  can  do  is  to 
hoid  their  tongues,  anyhow." 

"I  am  holding  my  tongue,  ain't  I?  What  has  got 
into  you,  Sylvia  Whitman?" 

"No,  you  didn't  hold  your  tongue  when  you  said 
that  about  there  not  being  so  much  smoke  without 
some  fire." 

"Well,  there  always  is  fire  when  there's  smoke, 
ain't  there?" 

"No,  there  ain't  always,  not  on  the  earth.  Some 
times  there's  smoke  that  folks'  wicked  imaginations 
bring  up  out  of  the  other  place.  I  do  believe  that." 

"Why,  Sylvia  Whitman,  how  you  do  talk!  You're 
almost  swearing." 

"Have  it  swearing  if  you  want  to,"  said  Sylvia. 
"I  know  I'm  glad  that  Albion  Bennet  has  gone  back 
to  Lucinda's.  Everybody  knows  how  mortal  scared 
he  is  of  his  own  shadow,  and  if  he's  got  grit  enough  to 
go  back  there  it's  enough  to  about  satisfy  folks  that 
there  wasn't  anything  in  the  story." 

"Well,  it's  'good  riddance,  bad  rubbish,'  as  far  as 
I'm  concerned,"  said  Mrs.  Jim  Jones.  There  had 
been  on  her  face  when  she  first  entered  an  expression 
of  peculiar  malignity.  Sylvia  knew  it  of  old.  She 
had  realized  that  Mrs.  Jones  had  something  sweet  for 
her  own  tongue,  but  bitter  for  her,  in  store,  and  that 
she  was  withholding  it  as  long  as  possible,  in  order  to 
prolong  the  delight  of  anticipation.  "You've  got 
two  boarders,  ain't  you?"  inquired  Mrs.  Jim  Jones. 

"I've  got  one  boarder,"  replied  Sylvia,  with  dignity, 
239 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"and  we  keep  him  because  he  can't  bear  to  go  any 
where  else  in  East  Westland,  and  because  we  like  his 
company." 

"I  thought  Abrahama  White's  niece — " 

"She  ain't  no  boarder.  She  makes  her  home  here. 
If  you  think  we'd  take  a  cent  of  money  from  poor 
Abrahama's  own  niece,  you're  mistaken." 

"I  didn't  know.  She  takes  after  her  grandmother 
White,  don't  she?  She  was  mortal  homely." 

Then  Sylvia  fairly  turned  pale  with  resentment. 
"She  doesn't  look  any  more  like  old  Mrs.  White  than 
your  cat  does,"  said  she.  "Rose  is  a  beauty;  every 
body  says  so.  She's  the  prettiest  girl  that  ever  set 
foot  in  this  town." 

"Everybody  to  their  taste,"  replied  Mrs.  Jim  Jones, 
in  the  village  formula  of  contempt.  "I  heard  Mr. 
Allen,  your  boarder,  was  going  to  marry  her,"  she  added. 

"He   ain't.'1 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it  from  headquarters,"  said  Mrs. 
Jim  Jones.  "I  said  I  couldn't  believe  it  was  true." 

"Mr.  Allen  won't  marry  any  girl  in  East  Westland," 
said  Sylvia. 

"Is  there  anybody  in  Boston?"  asked  Mrs.  Jim 
Jones,  losing  her  self-possession  a  little. 

Sylvia  played  her  trump  card.  "I  don't  know 
anything — that  is,  I  ain't  going  to  say  anything,"  she 
replied,  mysteriously. 

Mrs.  Jim  Jones  was  routed  for  a  second,  but  she 
returned  to  the  attack.  She  had  not  yet  come  to  her 
particular  errand.  She  felt  that  now  was  the  auspi 
cious  moment.  "I  felt  real  sorry  for  you  when  I 
heard  the  news,"  said  she. 

Sylvia  did  not  in  the  least  know  what  she  meant. 
240 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Inwardly  she  trembled,  but  she  would  have  died 
before  she  betrayed  herself.  She  would  not  even 
disclose  her  ignorance  of  what  the  news  might  be. 
She  did  not,  therefore,  reply  in  words,  but  gave  a 
noncommittal  grunt. 

"I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Jim  Jones,  driven  to  her 
last  gun,  "that  you  and  Mr.  Whitman  had  inherited 
enough  to  make  you  comfortable  for  life,  and  I  felt 
real  bad  to  find  out  you  hadn't." 

Sylvia  turned  a  little  pale,  but  her  gaze  never 
flinched.  She  grunted  again. 

"I  supposed,"  said  Mrs.  Jim  Jones,  mouthing  her 
words  with  intensest  relish,  "that  there  wouldn't  be 
any  need  for  Mr.  Whitman  to  work  any  more,  and 
when  I  heard  he  was  going  back  to  the  shop,  and 
when  I  saw  him  turn  in  there  this  morning,  I  declare 
I  did  feel  bad." 

Then  Sylvia  spoke.  "You  needn't  have  felt  bad," 
said  she.  "Nobody  asked  you  to." 

Mrs.  Jim  Jones  stared. 

"Nobody  asked  you  to,"  repeated  Sylvia.  "No 
body  is  feeling  at  all  bad  here.  It's  true  we've 
plenty,  so  Mr.  Whitman  don't  need  to  lift  his  ringer, 
if  he  don't  want  to,  but  a  man  can't  set  down,  day  in 
and  day  out,  and  suck  his  thumbs  when  he's  been 
used  to  working  all  his  life.  Some  folks  are  lazy  by 
choice,  and  some  folks  work  by  choice.  Mr.  Whit 
man  is  one  of  them." 

Mrs.  Jim  Jones  felt  fairly  defrauded.  "Then  you 
don't  feel  bad?"  said  she,  in  a  crestfallen  way. 

"Nobody  feels  bad  here,"  said  Sylvia.  "I  guess 
nobody  in  East  Westland  feels  bad  unless  it's  you, 
and  nobody  wants  you  to." 

241 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

After  Mrs.  Jim  Jones  had  gone,  Sylvia  went  into 
her  bedroom  and  sat  down  in  a  rocking-chair  by  the 
one  window.  Under  the  window  grew  a  sweetbrier 
rose-bush.  There  were  no  roses  on  it,  but  the  sooth 
ing  perfume  of  the  leaves  came  into  the  room.  Sylvia 
sat  quite  still  for  a  while.  Then  she  got  up  and  went 
into  the  sitting-room  with  her  mouth  set  hard. 

When  Rose  had  returned  she  had  greeted  her  as 
usual,  and  in  reply  to  her  question  where  Uncle  Henry 
was,  said  she  guessed  he  must  be  at  Mr.  Meeks's; 
there's  where  he  generally  was  when  he  wasn't  at 
home. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Sylvia  that  she  was  lying,  not 
even  when,  later  in  the  afternoon,  Horace  came  home, 
and  she  answered  his  question  as  to  her  husband's 
whereabouts  in  the  same  manner.  She  had  resolved 
upon  Sidney  Meeks's  as  a  synonyme  for  the  shoe-shop. 
She  knew  herself  that  when  she  said  Mr.  Meeks's  she 
in  reality  meant  shoe-shop.  She  did  not  worry  about 
others  not  having  the  same  comprehension  as  her 
self.  Sylvia  had  a  New  England  conscience,  but, 
like  all  New  England  consciences,  it  was  susceptible 
of  hard  twists  to  bring  it  into  accordance  with  New 
England  will. 

The  thunder  -  tempest,  as  Sylvia  termed  it,  con 
tinued.  She  kept  glancing,  from  her  station  of  safety, 
at  the  streaming  windows.  She  was  becoming  very 
much  worried  about  Henry.  At  last  she  saw  a  figure, 
bent  to  the  rainy  wind,  pass  swiftly  before  the  side 
windows  of  the  sitting-room.  She  was  on  her  feet  in 
an  instant,  although  at  that  minute  the  room  was 
filled  with  blue  flame  followed  by  a  terrific  crash. 
She  ran  out  into  the  kitchen  and  flung  open  the  door. 

242 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Come  in  quick,  for  mercy's  sake!"  she  called. 
Henry  entered.  He  was  dripping  with  rain.  Sylvia 
did  not  ask  a  question.  "Stand  right  where  you  are 
till  I  bring  you  some  dry  clothes,"  she  said. 

Henry  obeyed.  He  stood  meekly  on  the  oil-cloth 
while  Sylvia  hurried  through  the  sitting-room  to  her 
bedroom. 

"Mr.  Whitman  has  got  home  from  Mr.  Meeks's, 
and  he's  dripping  wet,"  she  said  to  Horace  and  Rose. 
"I  am  going  to  get  him  some  dry  things  and  hang 
the  wet  ones  by  the  kitchen  stove." 

When  she  re-entered  the  kitchen  with  her  arms 
full,  Henry  cast  a  scared  glance  at  her.  She  met  it 
imperturbably. 

' '  Hurry  and  get  off  those  wet  things  or  you'll  catch 
your  death  of  cold,"  said  she. 

Henry  obeyed.  Sylvia  fastened  his  necktie  for 
him  when  he  was  ready  for  it.  He  wondered  if  she 
smelled  the  leather  in  his  drenched  clothing.  His 
own  nostrils  were  full  of  it.  But  Sylvia  made  no  sign. 
She  never  afterwards  made  any  sign.  She  never  in 
timated  to  Henry  in  any  fashion  that  she  knew  of  his 
return  to  the  shop.  She  was,  if  anything,  kinder  and 
gentler  with  him  than  she  had  been  before,  but  when 
ever  he  attempted,  being  led  thereto  by  a  guilty  con 
science,  to  undeceive  her,  Sylvia  lightly  but  decidedly 
waved  the  revelation  aside.  She  would  not  have  it. 

That  day,  when  she  and  Henry  entered  the  sitting- 
room,  she  said,  so  calmly  that  he  had  not  the  courage 
to  contradict  her:  "Here  is  your  uncle  Henry  home 
from  Mr.  Meeks's,  and  he  was  as  wet  as  a  drowned 
rat.  I  suppose  Mr.  Meeks  didn't  have  any  umbrella 
to  lend.  Old  bachelors  never  do  have  anything." 

243 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Henry  sat  down  quietly  in  his  allotted  chair.  He 
said  nothing.  It  was  only  when  the  storm  had 
abated,  when  there  was  a  clear  streak  of  gold  low  in 
the  west,  and  all  the  wet  leaves  in  the  yard  gave  out 
green  and  silver  lights,  when  Sylvia  had  gone  out  in 
the  kitchen  to  get  supper  and  Rose  had  followed  her, 
that  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other. 

"Does  she  know?"  whispered  Horace. 

"If  she  does  know,  and  has  taken  a  notion  never 
to  let  anybody  know  she  knows,  she  never  will,"  re 
plied  Henry. 

"You  mean  that  she  will  never  mention  it  even  to 
you?" 

Henry  nodded.  He  looked  relieved  and  scared. 
He  was  right.  He  continued  to  work  in  the  shop, 
and  Sylvia  never  intimated  to  him  that  she  knew 
anything  about  it. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHEN  Henry  had  worked  in  the  shop  before 
Sylvia's  inheritance,  he  had  always  given  her  a  cer 
tain  proportion  of  his  wages  and  himself  defrayed 
their  housekeeping  bills.  He  began  to  do  so  again, 
and  Sylvia  accepted  everything  without  comment. 
Henry  gradually  became  sure  that  she  did  not  touch 
a  dollar  of  her  income  from  her  new  property  for 
herself.  One  day  he  found  on  the  bureau  in  their 
bedroom  a  book  on  an  Alford  savings-bank,  and  dis 
covered  that  Sylvia  had  opened  an  account  therein 
for  Rose.  Sylvia  also  began  to  give  Rose  expensive 
gifts.  When  the  girl  remonstrated,  she  seemed  so  dis 
tressed  that  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  accept  them. 

Sylvia  no  longer  used  any  of  Abrahama  White's 
clothes  for  herself.  Instead,  she  begged  Rose  to 
take  them,  and  finally  induced  her  to  send  several 
old  gowns  to  her  dressmaker  in  New  York  for  renova 
tion.  When  Rose  appeared  in  these  gowns  Sylvia's 
expression  of  worried  secrecy  almost  vanished. 

The  time  went  on,  and  it  was  midsummer.  Horace 
was  spending  his  long  vacation  in  East  Westland. 
He  had  never  done  so  before,  and  Sylvia  was  not 
pleased  by  it.  Day  after  day  she  told  him  that  he 
did  not  look  well,  that  she  thought  he  needed  a  change 
of  air.  Henry  became  puzzled.  One  day  he  asked 

245 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Sylvia  if  she  did  not  want  Mr.  Allen  to  stay  with  them 
any  longer. 

"Of  course  I  do,"  she  replied. 

"Well,  you  keep  asking  him  why  he  doesn't  go 
away,  and  I  began  to  think  you  didn't,"  said  Henry. 

"I  want  him  to  stay,"  said  Sylvia,  "but  I  don't 
want  any  foolishness." 

"Foolishness?"  said  Henry,  vaguely. 

It  was  a  very  hot  afternoon,  but  in  spite  of  the  heat 
Rose  and  Horace  were  afield.  They  had  been  gone  ever 
since  dinner.  It  was  Saturday,  and  Henry  had  come 
home  early  from  the  shop.  The  first  question  he 
asked  had  been  concerning  the  whereabouts  of  the 
young  people.  "Off  together  somewhere,"  Sylvia  had 
replied.  Then  the  conversation  had  ensued. 

"Yes,  foolishness,"  repeated  Sylvia,  with  a  sort  of 
hysterical  violence.  She  sat  out  on  the  front  porch 
with  some  mending,  and  she  sewed  feverishly  as  she 
spoke. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  foolishness,  I 
guess,  Sylvia." 

Henry  sat  on  the  porch  step.  He  wore  a  black 
mohair  coat,  and  his  thin  hair  was  well  brushed. 

"It  does  seem,"  said  Sylvia,  "as  if  a  young  man 
and  a  young  woman  might  live  in  the  same  house  and 
behave  themselves." 

Henry  stared  at  her.  "Why,  Sylvia,  you  don't 
mean — " 

"I  mean  just  what  I  said — behave  themselves.  It 
does  seem  sometimes  as  if  everything  any  girl  or 
young  man  thought  of  was  falling  in  love  and  getting 
married,"  Sylvia  said — "falling  in  love  and  getting 
married,"  with  a  bitter  and  satirical  emphasis, 

£46 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  don't  see,"  said  Henry,  "that  there  is  very  much 
against  Mr.  Allen  and  Rose's  falling  in  love  and  get 
ting  married.  I  think  he  might  do  worse,  and  I 
think  she  might.  Sometimes  I've  looked  at  the  two 
of  them  and  wondered  if  they  weren't  just  made  for 
each  other.  I  can't  see  quite  what  you  mean, 
Sylvia?  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  don't 
want  Mr.  Allen  ever  to  get  married?" 

"He  can  marry  whoever  he  wants  to,"  said  Sylvia, 
"but  he  sha'n't  marry  her." 

"You  don't  mean  you  don't  want  her  ever  to  get 
married?" 

"Yes,  I  do  mean  just  that." 

"Why,  Sylvia,  are  you  crazy?" 

"No,  I  ain't  crazy,"  replied  Sylvia,  doggedly.  "I 
don't  want  her  to  get  married,  and  I'm  in  the  right  of 
it.  She's  no  call  to  get  married." 

"I  don't  see  why  she  'ain't  got  a  call  as  well  as  other 
girls." 

"She  'ain't.  Here  she's  got  a  good  home,  and  every 
thing  she  needs,  and  more,  too.  She's  got  money  of 
her  own  that  she  had  when  she  come  here,  plenty  of  it. 
I'm  going  over  to  Alford  to-morrow  and  see  if  I  can't 
find  some  things  in  the  stores  there  for  her  that  I 
think  she'll  like.  And  I'm  going  to  get  Jim  Jones — 
he's  a  good  hand — to  see  if  he  can't  get  a  good,  safe 
horse  and  pretty  carriage  for  her,  so  she  can  ride  out." 

Henry  stared.  "I  dunno  as  I  can  take  care  of  a 
horse,  Sylvia,"  he  said,  doubtfully. 

"Nobody  wants  you  to.  I  can  get  Billy  Hudson 
to  come.  He  can  sleep  in  the  chamber  over  the 
kitchen.  I  spoke  to  his  mother  about  it,  and  she's 
tickled  to  pieces.  She  says  he's  real  handy  with 

247 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

horses,  and  he'll  come  for  fifteen  dollars  a  month  and 
his  board.  Rose  is  going  to  have  everything  she 
wants." 

"Does  she  want  a  horse  and  carriage?" 

"I  shouldn't  think  of  it  if  I  didn't  s'pose  she  did." 

"What  made  me  ask,"  said  Henry,  "was,  I'd  never 
heard  her  speak  of  it,  and  I  knew  she  had  money 
enough  for  anything  if  she  did  want  it." 

"Are  you  grudging  my  spending  money  her  own 
aunt  left  on  her?" 

Henry  looked  reproachfully  at  his  wife.  "I  didn't 
quite  deserve  that  from  you,  Sylvia,"  he  said,  slowly. 

Sylvia  looked  at  him  a  moment.  Her  face  worked. 
Then  she  glanced  around  to  be  sure  nobody  saw,  and 
leaned  over  and  touched  the  shoulder  of  Henry's 
mohair  coat  with  a  little,  skinny  hand.  "Henry," 
she  said,  pitifully. 

"What,  Sylvia?" 

"You  know  I  didn't  mean  anything.  You've 
always  been  generous  about  money  matters.  We 
'ain't  never  had  ill  feeling  about  such  a  thing  as  that. 
I  shouldn't  have  spoke  that  way  if  I  hadn't  been  all 
wrought  up,  and — "  Suddenly  Sylvia  thrust  her 
hand  under  her  white  apron  and  swept  it  up  to  her 
face.  She  shook  convulsively. 

"Now,  Sylvia,  of  course  you  didn't  mean  a  blessed 
thing.  I've  known  you  were  all  wrought  up  for  a 
long  time,  but  I  haven't  known  what  about.  Don't 
take  on  so,  Sylvia." 

A  little,  hysterical  sob  came  from  Sylvia  under  the 
apron.  Her  scissors  fell  from  her  lap  and  struck  the 
stone  slab  on  which  Henry  was  sitting.  He  picked 
them  up.  "Here  are  your  scissors,  Sylvia,"  said  he. 

248 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Now  don't  take  on  so.  What  is  it  about?  What 
have  you  got  on  your  mind?  Don't  you  think  it 
would  do  you  good  to  tell  me?" 

"I  wish,"  sobbed  Sylvia,  "that  Abrahama  White 
had  left  her  property  where  it  belonged.  I  wish  we'd 
never  had  a  cent  of  it.  She  didn't  do  right,  and  she 
laid  the  burden  of  her  wrong-doing  onto  us  when  she 
left  us  the  property." 

"Is  that  what's  troubling  you,  Sylvia?"  said  Henry, 
slowly.  "If  that's  all,"  he  continued,  "why — " 

But  Sylvia  interrupted  him.  She  swept  the  apron 
from  her  face  and  showed  it  grimly  set.  There  was 
no  trace  of  tears.  "That  ain't  troubling  me,"  said 
she.  "Nothing's  troubling  me.  I'm  kind  of  nervous, 
that's  all,  and  I  hate  to  set  still  and  see  foolishness. 
I  don't  often  give  way,  and  I  'ain't  nothing  to  give 
way  for.  I'm  jest  all  wrought  up.  I  guess  there's 
going  to  be  a  thunder-tempest.  I've  felt  jest  like  it 
all  day.  I  wish  you'd  go  out  in  the  garden  and  pick 
a  mess  of  green  corn  for  supper.  If  you're  a  mind 
to  you  can  husk  it,  and  get  that  middling-sized  kettle 
out  from  under  the  sink  and  put  the  water  on  to  boil. 
I  suppose  they'll  be  home  before  long  now.  They 
ain't  quite  got  to  going  without  their  victuals." 

Henry  rose.  "I'd  admire  to  get  the  corn,"  said 
he,  and  went  around  the  house  towards  the  kitchen. 
Left  to  herself,  Sylvia  let  her  work  fall  in  her  lap. 
She  stared  at  the  front  yard  and  the  street  beyond 
and  the  .opposite  house,  dimly  seen  between  waving 
boughs,  and  her  face  was  the  face  of  despair.  Little, 
commonplace,  elderly  countenance  that  it  seemed, 
it  was  strengthened  into  tragedy  by  the  terrible 
stress  of  some  concealed  misery  of  the  spirit.  Sylvia 

17  249 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

sat  very  stiffly,  so  stiffly  that  even  the  work  in  her 
lap,  a  mass  of  soft  muslin,  might  have  been  marble, 
with  its  immovable  folds.  Sylvia  herself  looked 
petrified;  not  a  muscle  of  her  face  stirred.  She  was 
suffering  the  keenest  agony  upon  earth,  that  agony 
of  the  spirit  which  strikes  it  dumb. 

She  had  borne  it  for  months.  She  had  never  let 
slip  the  slightest  hint  of  it.  At  times  she  had  managed 
to  quiet  it  with  what  she  knew  to  be  sophistries.  She 
had  been  able  to  imagine  herself  almost  happy  with 
Rose  and  the  new  passion  for  her  which  had  come 
into  her  life,  but  that  passion  was  overgrown  by  her 
secret,  like  some  hideous  parasite.  Even  the  girl's 
face,  which  was  so  beloved,  was  not  to  be  seen  without 
a  pang  to  follow  upon  the  happiness.  Sylvia  showed, 
however,  in  spite  of  her  face  of  utter  despair,  an  odd 
strength,  a  courage  as  if  for  battle. 

After  awhile  she  heard  Henry's  returning  footsteps, 
and  immediately  her  face  and  whole  body  relaxed. 
She  became  flesh,  and  took  up  her  needlework,  and 
Henry  found  her  sewing  placidly.  The  change  had 
been  marvellous.  Once  more  Sylvia  was  a  little, 
commonplace,  elderly  woman  at  her  commonplace 
task.  Even  that  subtle  expression  which  at  times  so 
puzzled  Henry  had  disappeared.  The  man  had  a 
sensation  of  relief  as  he  resumed  his  seat  on  the  stone 
step.  He  was  very  patient  with  Sylvia.  It  was  his 
nature  to  be  patient  with  all  women.  Without 
realizing  it,  he  had  a  tenderness  for  them  which 
verged  on  contempt.  He  loved  Sylvia,  but  he  never 
lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  she  was  a  woman  and  he 
a  man,  and  therefore  it  followed,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
that  she  was  by  nature  weaker  and,  because  of  the 

250 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

weakness,  had  a  sweet  inferiority.  It  had  never  de 
tracted  from  his  love  for  her;  it  had  increased  it. 
There  might  not  have  been  any  love  in  the  beginning 
except  for  that. 

Henry  was  perhaps  scarcely  capable  of  loving  a 
woman  whom  he  might  be  compelled  to  acknowledge 
as  his  superior.  This  elderly  New-Englander  had  in 
him  none  of  the  spirit  of  knight-errantry.  He  had 
been  a  good,  faithful  husband  to  his  wife,  but  he  had 
never  set  her  on  a  pedestal,  but  a  trifle  below  him,  and 
he  had  loved  her  there  and  been  patient  with  her. 

But  patience  must  breed  a  certain  sense  of  superior 
ity.  That  is  inevitable.  Henry's  tender  patience 
with  Sylvia's  moods  and  unreason  made  him  see  over 
her  character,  as  he  could  see  over  her  physical  head. 
Lately  this  sense  of  mystery  had  increased,  in  a  way, 
his  comprehension  of  his  own  stature.  The  more 
mysterious  Sylvia  became,  and  the  more  Henry's 
patience  was  called  into  action,  the  taller  he  appeared 
to  himself  to  become. 

While  he  had  been  getting  the  corn  out  in  the 
garden,  and  preparing  it  to  be  cooked,  he  had  re 
flected  upon  Sylvia's  unaccountable  emotion  and  her 
assertion  that  there  was  no  reason  for  it,  and  he 
realized  his  masculine  height.  He  knew  that  it  would 
have  been  impossible  for  him  to  lose  control  of  him 
self  and  then  declare  that  there  was  no  cause;  to 
sway  like  a  reed  driven  by  the  wind. 

Henry  was  rather  taken  by  this  idea.  When  he 
had  returned  to  his  station  on  the  porch  he  was  think 
ing  how  women  were  reeds  driven  by  the  winds  of 
their  emotions,  and  really,  in  a  measure,  irresponsible. 
If  he  had  again  found  Sylvia  with  her  apron  over  her 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF   ATLAS 

face,  he  was  quite  prepared  to  be  very  tender,  but  he 
was  relieved  to  see  that  the  paroxysm  had  passed. 
He  did  not  smile  as  he  sat  down,  neither  did  Sylvia. 
It  was  rather  unusual  for  them  to  smile  at  each  other, 
but  they  exchanged  looks  of  peaceful  accord,  which 
really  meant  more  than  smiles. 

"Well,"  said  Henry,  "the  kettle's  on  the  stove." 

"How  much  corn  did  you  get?" 

"Well,  I  allowed  three  ears  apiece.  They're  pretty 
good  size.  I  thought  that  was  about  right." 

Sylvia  nodded. 

"The  corn's  holding  out  pretty  well,"  said  Henry. 
"That  other  later  kind  will  be  ready  by  the  time  the 
lima  beans  are  ripe." 

"That  '11  go  nice  for  succotash,"  said  Sylvia,  taking 
another  stitch. 

"That's  what  I  was  thinking,"  said  Henry. 

He  sat  staring  out  upon  the  front  yard,  and  he 
was  in  reality  thinking,  with  pleasant  anticipations, 
of  the  succotash.  Now  that  he  was  back  in  his  old 
track  at  the  shop,  his  appetite  was  better,  and  he 
found  himself  actually  dreaming  about  savory  dishes 
like  a  boy.  Henry's  pleasures  in  life  were  so  few  and 
simple  that  they  had  to  go  a  long  way,  and  lap  over 
onto  his  spiritual  needs  from  his  physical  ones. 

Sylvia  broke  in  upon  his  visions  of  succotash.  She 
was  straining  her  eyes  to  see  the  road  beyond  the 
front  yard.  "What  time  is  it?"  she  asked.  "Do 
you  know?" 

"It  was  half -past  five  by  the  kitchen  clock." 

"They  ain't  in  sight  yet."  Sylvia  stared  and 
frowned  at  the  distance.  "This  house  does  set  too 
far  back,"  she  said,  impatiently. 

252 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Now,  Sylvia,  I  wouldn't  give  up  a  mite  of  this 
front  yard." 

"I'd  give  it  all  up  if  I  could  see  folks  go  past.  A 
woman  wants  to  see  something  out  of  the  window 
and  from  the  doorstep  besides  flowers  and  box  and 
trees." 

Sylvia  glared  at  the  yard,  which  was  beautiful. 
The  box  grew  lustily,  framing  beds  of  flowers  and 
clusters  of  radiant  bushes.  There  were  two  perfectly 
symmetrical  horse-chestnut-trees,  one  on  each  side 
of  the  broad  gravel  walk.  The  yard  looked  like  some 
wonderful  map  wherein  the  countries  were  made  of 
flowers,  the  design  was  so  charmingly  artificial  and 
prim. 

"It's  awful  set,  I  think,"  said  Sylvia.  "I'd  rather 
have  flowers  growing  where  they  want  to  instead  of 
where  they  have  to.  And  I  never  did  like  box.  Folks 
say  it's  unhealthy,  too." 

"It's  been  here  for  years,  and  the  people  who  be 
longed  here  have  never  been  short-lived,"  said  Henry. 
"I  like  it." 

"I  don't,"  said  Sylvia.  She  looked  at  the  road. 
"I  don't  see  where  they  can  be." 

"Oh,  they'll  be  along  soon.     Don't  worry,  Sylvia." 

"Well,"  said  Sylvia,  in  a  strident  voice,  "I'm  going 
in  and  get  supper,  and  when  it's  ready  we'll  set  down 
and  eat  it.  I  ain't  going  to  wait  one  minute.  I'm 
just  sick  of  this  kind  of  work." 

Sylvia  got  up,  and  her  scissors  dropped  again  onto 
the  step.  Henry  picked  them  up.  "Here  are  your 
scissors,"  said  he. 

Sylvia  took  them  and  went  into  the  house  with  a 
flounce.  Henry  heard  a  door  slam  and  dishes  rattle. 

253 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"She's  all  wrought  up  again,"  he  thought.  He  felt 
very  tall  as  he  pitied  Sylvia.  He  was  sorry  for  her, 
but  her  distress  over  such  a  matter  as  the  young  folks' 
being  late  seemed  to  him  about  as  much  to  be  taken 
seriously  as  the  buzzing  of  a  bumblebee  over  a  clump 
of  lilies  in  the  yard. 

He  was  watching  the  bumblebee  when  he  heard 
the  front  gate  click,  and  thought  with  relief  that  the 
wanderers  had  returned,  then  Sidney  Meeks  came 
into  view  from  between  the  rows  of  box.  Sidney 
came  up  the  walk,  wiping  his  forehead  with  a  large 
red  handkerchief,  and  fanning  himself  with  an  obso 
lete  straw  hat. 

"Hullo,"  said  Henry. 

"How  are  you?"  said  Meeks.  "It's  a  corking  hot 
day." 

"Yes,  it  is  pretty  hot,  but  I  think  it's  a  little  cooler 
than  it  was  an  hour  ago." 

"Try  walking  and  you  won't  think  so." 

"Set  down,"  said  Henry,  pointing  to  the  chair 
Sylvia  had  just  vacated.  "Set  down  and  stay  to 
supper." 

"I  don't  say  I  won't  stay  to  supper,  but  I've  got 
an  errand  first.  I've  struck  a  new  idea  about  wine. 
Haven't  you  got  a  lot  of  wild  grapes  down  back 
here?" 

"Yes,  back  of  the  orchard." 

"Well,  I've  got  an  idea.  I  won't  say  what  it  is 
now.  I  want  to  see  how  it  turns  out  first.  Does 
Sylvia  use  wild  grapes?" 

"No,  I  know  she  won't.  There  are  going  to  be 
bushels  of  Concords  and  Dela wares." 

"Well,  I  want  you  to  go  down  with  me  and  let 
254 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

me  look  at  your  wild  grape-vines.  I  suppose  the 
grapes  must  be  set  long  ago.  I  just  want  to  see  how 
many  there  are.  I  suppose  I  can  make  a  deal  with 
you  for  some?" 

"  You  can  have  them,  and  welcome.  I  know  Sylvia 
will  say  so,  too." 

"Well,  come  along.     We  can  go  around  the  house." 

Henry  and  Meeks  skirted  the  house  and  the  vege 
table  garden,  then  crossed  a  field,  and  found  them 
selves  at  one  side  of  the  orchard.  It  was  a  noble  old 
orchard.  The  apple,  pear,  and  peach  trees,  set  in 
even  rows,  covered  three  acres.  Between  the  men  and 
the  orchard  grew  the  wild  grapes,  rioting  over  an  old 
fence.  Henry  began  to  say  there  was  a  gap  in  the 
fence  farther  down,  but  the  lawyer's  hand  gripped 
his  arm  with  sudden  violence,  and  he  stopped  short. 
Then  he  as  well  as  Meeks  heard  voices.  They  heard 
the  tones  of  a  girl,  trembling  with  sweetness  and  de 
light,  foolish  with  the  blessed  folly  of  life  and  youth. 
The  voice  was  so  full  of  joy  that  at  first  it  sounded 
no  more  articulate  than  a  bird's  song.  It  was  like 
a  strophe  from  the  primeval  language  of  all  languages. 
Henry  and  Meeks  seemed  to  understand,  finally,  what 
the  voice  said,  more  from  some  inner  sympathy,  which 
dated  back  to  their  youth  and  chorded  with  it,  than 
from  any  actual  comprehension  of  spoken  words. 

This  was  what  the  sweet,  divinely  foolish  girl- 
voice  said:  "I  don't  know  what  you  can  see  in  me  to 
love." 

There  was  nothing  in  the  words;  it  was  what  any 
girl  might  say;  it  was  very  trite,  but  it  was  a  song. 
Celestial  modesty  and  pride  were  in  it,  and  joy  which 
looked  at  itself  and  doubted  if  it  were  joy. 

255 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Then  came  the  man's  voice,  and  that  sang  a  song 
also  foolish  and  trite,  but  divine  and  triumphant  and 
new  as  every  spring. 

Henry  and  Meeks  saw  gradually,  as  they  listened, 
afraid  to  move  lest  they  be  heard.  They  saw  Horace 
and  Rose  sitting  on  the  green  turf  under  an  apple- 
tree.  They  leaned  against  its  trunk,  twisted  with 
years  of  sun  and  storm,  and  the  green  spread  of 
branches  was  overhead,  and  they  were  all  dappled 
with  shade  and  light  like  the  gold  bosses  of  a  shield. 
The  man's  arm  was  around  the  girl,  and  they  were 
looking  at  each  other  and  seeing  this  world  and  that 
which  is  to  come. 

Suddenly  Meeks  gave  Henry's  arm  another  violent 
clutch.  He  pointed.  Then  they  saw  another  girl 
standing  in  the  tangle  of  wild  grapes.  She  wore  a 
green  muslin  gown,  and  was  so  motionless  that  it 
was  not  easy  to  discern  her  readily.  She  was  listening 
and  watching  the  lovers,  and  her  young  face  was  ter 
rible.  It  was  full  of  an  enormous,  greedy  delight, 
as  of  one  who  eats  ravenously,  and  yet  there  was 
malignity  and  awful  misery  and  unreason  in  it. 
Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  blue  eyes  glittered. 
It  was  evident  that  everything  she  heard  and  saw 
caused  her  the  most  horrible  agony  and  a  more  hor 
rible  joy.  She  was  like  a  fanatic  who  dances  in  fire. 

Meeks  and  Henry  looked  at  her  for  a  long  minute, 
then  at  each  other.  Henry  nodded  as  if  in  response 
to  a  question.  Then  the  two  men,  moving  by  al 
most  imperceptible  degrees,  keeping  the  utmost 
silence,  hearing  all  the  time  that  love  duet  on  the 
other  side  of  the  grape-vines,  got  behind  the  girl. 
She  had  been  so  intent  that  there  had  been  no  danger 

256 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

of  seeing  them.  Horace  and  Rose  were  also  so  in 
tent  that  they  were  not  easily  reached  by  any  sight 
or  sound  outside  themselves. 

Meeks  noiselessly  and  firmly  clasped  one  of  Lucy 
Ayres's  arms.  It  was  very  slender,  and  pathetically 
cold  through  her  thin  sleeve.  Henry  grasped  the 
other.  She  turned  her  wild  young  face  over  her 
shoulder,  and  saw  them,  and  yielded.  Between  them 
the  two  men  half  carried,  half  led  the  girl  away  across 
the  fields  to  the  road.  When  they  were  on  the  road 
Henry  released  his  grasp  of  her  arm,  but  Meeks  re 
tained  his.  "Will  you  go  quietly  home?"  said  he, 
"or  shall  Mr.  Whitman  and  I  go  with  you?" 

"I  will  go,"  Lucy  replied,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

Meeks  looked  keenly  at  her.  "Now,  Lucy,"  he 
said,  in  a  gentle  voice,  "there's  no  use;  you've  got 
to  go  home." 

"Yes,"  said  Henry.  "Go  home  to  your  ma,  right 
away,  like  a  good  girl." 

Lucy  remained  motionless.  Her  poor  young  eyes 
seemed  to  see  nothing. 

"Good  Lord!"  sighed  Meeks,  wiping  his  forehead 
with  his  disengaged  hand.  "Well,  come  along,  Lucy. 
Now,  Lucy,  you  don't  want  to  make  a  spectacle  of 
yourself  on  the  street.  I  think  we  must  go  home 
with  you,  because  I  can  see  right  in  your  eyes  that 
you  won't  budge  a  step  unless  we  make  you,  but  we 
don't  want  to  walk  holding  on  to  you.  So  now  you 
just  march  along  ahead,  and  we'll  keep  behind  you, 
and  we  won't  have  all  the  town  up  in  arms." 

Lucy  said  nothing.  Meeks  wiped  his  forehead 
again,  freed  her,  and  gave  her  a  gentle  shove  between 
her  shoulders.  "Now,  march,"  said  he. 

257 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Lucy  began  to  walk;  the  two  men  kept  behind  her. 
Presently  they  met  a  boy,  who  evidently  noticed 
nothing  unusual,  for  he  leaped  past,  whistling. 

"Thank  the  Lord  it  isn't  far,"  muttered  Meeks, 
wiping  his  forehead.  "It's  d — n  hot." 

Lucy  walked  on  quite  rapidly  after  awhile.  They 
were  nearly  in  sight  of  her  home  when  Mrs.  Ay  res 
met  them.  She  was  almost  running,  and  was  pale 
and  out  of  breath. 

' '  Lucy , ' '  she  began , ' '  where —  ? ' '  Then  she  realized 
that  Meeks  and  Henry  were  with  the  girl. 

"Henry,  you  just  keep  an  eye  on  her,"  said  Meeks. 
Then  he  spoke  to  Mrs.  Ayres  with  old-fashioned 
ceremony.  "Madam,"  he  said,  "will  you  be  so  kind 
as  to  step  aside?  I  have  a  word  I  would  like  to  say 
to  you." 

Mrs.  Ayres,  with  a  scared  glance  at  Lucy,  complied. 

"Just  this  way  a  moment,"  he  said.  "Now, 
madam,  I  have  a  word  of  advice  which  you  are  at 
liberty  to  take  or  not.  Your  daughter  seems  to  be  in 
a  dangerously  nervous  state.  I  will  tell  you  plainly 
where  we  found  her.  It  seems  that  Mr.  Allen  and 
Miss  Fletcher  have  fallen  in  love  with  each  other, 
and  have  come  to  an  understanding.  We  happened 
upon  them,  sitting  together  very  properly,  as  lovers 
should,  in  the  apple  orchard  back  of  Mr.  Whitman's, 
and  your  daughter  stood  there  watching  them.  She 
is  very  nervous.  If  you  take  my  advice  you  will  lose 
no  time  in  getting  her  away." 

Mrs.  Ayres  stood  and  listened  with  a  cold,  pale 
dignity.  She  waited  until  Meeks  had  entirely  finish 
ed,  then  she  spoke  slowly  and  evenly. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Meeks,"  she  said.  "Your  ad- 
258 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

vice  is  very  good,  so  good  that  I  have  proved  it  by 
anticipating  you.  My  daughter  is  in  a  very  nervous 
condition.  She  never  fully  recovered  from  a  severe 
attack  of  the  grip." 

Mrs.  Ay  res  lied,  and  Meeks  respected  her  for  it. 

"We  are  to  start  before  long  for  St.  Louis,  where 
my  brother  lives,"  continued  Mrs.  Ay  res.  "I  am 
going  to  rent  my  house  furnished.  My  brother  is  a 
widower,  and  wishes  us  to  make  our  home  with  him, 
and  we  may  never  return  here.  I  was  obliged  to  go 
on  an  errand  to  the  store,  and  when  I  came  home  I 
missed  Lucy  and  was  somewhat  anxious.  I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you.  We  are  going  away,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  that  an  entire  change  of  scene  will  restore 
my  daughter  entirely.  Yesterday  she  had  a  sick 
headache,  and  is  still  suffering  somewhat  from  it  to 
day." 

"That  woman  lied  like  a  gentleman,"  Meeks  said 
to  Henry  when  they  were  on  their  way  home.  "Good 
Lord!  I  was  thankful  to  her." 

Henry  was  regarding  him  with  a  puzzled  look. 
"Do  you  think  the  poor  girl  is  in  love  with  Mr.  Allen, 
too?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  she  is  in  love  with  love,  and  nothing  will 
cure  that,"  said  Meeks. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HENRY  looked  more  and  more  disturbed  as  they 
went  down  the  street.  "I  declare,  I  don't  know 
what  Sylvia  will  say,"  he  remarked,  moodily. 

"You  mean  about  the  pretty  little  love-affair?" 
said  Meeks,  walking  along  fanning  himself  with  his 
hat. 

"Yes,  she'll  be  dreadful  upset." 

"Upset;  why?" 

"It  beats  me  to  know  why.  Who  ever  does  know 
the  why  of  a  woman?" 

"What  in  creation  is  the  fellow,  anyhow?"  said 
Meeks,  with  a  laugh.  "Are  all  the  women  going  daft 
over  him  ?  He  isn't  half  bad  looking,  and  he's  a  good 
sort,  but  I'm  hanged  if  I  can  see  why  he  should  upset 
every  woman  who  looks  at  him.  Here  we've  just 
escorted  that  poor  Ay  res  girl  home.  I  declare,  her 
face  made  me  shiver.  I  was  glad  there  wasn't  any 
pond  handy  for  her.  But  if  you  mean  to  say  that 
your  good,  sensible  old  wife — " 

"Get  out!  You  know  better,"  cried  Henry,  im 
patiently.  "You  know  Sylvia  better  than  that. 
She  sets  a  lot  by  Mr.  Allen;  I  do  myself;  but,  as  far 
as  that  goes,  she'd  give  her  blessing  if  he'd  marry  any 
girl  but  Rose.  That's  where  the  hitch  comes  in. 
She  doesn't  want  him  to  marry  her." 

260 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Thinks  he  isn't  good  enough?'' 

"I  don't  believe  it's  that.  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 
She  says  she  don't  want  Rose  to  marry  anybody." 

"Good  Lord!  Sylvia  doesn't  expect  a  girl  with  a 
face  like  that,  and  money  to  boot,  to  be  an  old  maid! 
My  only  wonder  is  that  she  hasn't  been  snapped  up 
before  now." 

"I  guess  Rose  has  had  chances." 

"If  she  hasn't,  all  the  men  who  have  seen  her  have 
been  stone  blind." 

"I  don't  know  what  has  got  into  Sylvia,  and  that's 
the  truth,"  Henry  said.  "I  never  saw  her  act  the 
way  she  does  lately.  I  can't  imagine  what  has  got 
into  her  head  about  Rose  that  she  thinks  she  mustn't 
get  married." 

"Maybe  Sylvia  is  in  love  with  the  girl,"  said  Meeks, 
shrewdly. 

"I  know  she  is,"  said  Henry.  "Poor  Sylvia  loves 
her  as  if  she  was  her  own  daughter,  but  I  have  always 
understood  that  mothers  were  crazy  to  have  their 
daughters  married." 

"So  have  I,  but  these  popular  ideas  are  sometimes 
nonsense.  I  have  always  heard  that  myself." 

"Sylvia  and  I  have  been  happy  enough  together," 
said  Henry.  "It  can't  be  that  her  own  life  as  a 
married  woman  makes  her  think  it  a  better  plan  to 
remain  single." 

"That's  stuff." 

"It  seems  so  to  me.  Well,  all  the  reason  I  can 
think  of  is,  Sylvia  has  come  to  set  so  much  by  the 
girl  that  she's  actually  jealous  of  her." 

"Do  you  suppose  they'll  tell  her  to-night?"  asked 
Meeks. 

261 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Henry  regarded  him  with  an  expression  of  actual 
terror.  "Seems  as  if  they  might  wait,  and  let  Sylvia 
have  her  night's  sleep,"  he  muttered. 

"I  guess  I  won't  stay  to  supper,"  said  Meeks. 

"Stay,  for  the  Lord's  sake." 

Meeks  laughed.     "I  believe  you  are  afraid,  Henry." 

"I  hate  to  see  a  woman  upset  over  anything." 

"So  do  I,  for  that  matter.  Do  you  think  my 
staying  might  make  it  any  better?" 

"Yes,  it  might.  Here  we  are  in  sight  of  the  house. 
You  ain't  going  to  back  out?" 

Meeks  laughed  again,  although  rather  uneasily. 
"All  right,"  he  said. 

When  he  and  Henry  entered  they  found  Sylvia 
moving  nervously  about  the  sitting-room.  She  was 
scowling,  and  her  starched  apron-strings  were  ram 
pant  at  her  slim  back. 

"Well,"  she  said,  with  a  snap,  "I'm  glad  some 
body  has  come.  Supper's  been  ready  for  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  I  don't  know  but  the  corn  is 
spoiled.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Meeks?  I'll  be  glad 
to  have  you  stay  to  supper,  but  I  don't  know  as 
there's  a  thing  fit  to  eat." 

"Oh,  111  risk  it,"  Sidney  said.  "You  can't  have 
anything  worse  than  I've  got  at  home.  I  had  to  go 
to  Alford  about  that  confounded  Ames  case.  I  had 
a  dinner  there  that  wasn't  fit  for  a  dog  to  eat,  and  I'm 
down  to  baker's  bread  and  cheese." 

"Where  have  you  been?"  demanded  Sylvia  of 
Henry.  He  cast  an  appealing  glance  at  Meeks.  The 
two  men  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder,  as  if  confronted 
by  a  common  foe  of  nervous  and  exasperated  feminity. 

"I'm  to  blame  for  that,"  said  Meeks.  "I  wanted 
262 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

to  see  if  you  had  any  wild  grapes  to  spare,  and  I 
asked  Henry  to  go  down  to  the  orchard  with  me.  I 
suppose  you  can  spare  me  some  of  those  wild  grapes?" 

"Take  all  you  want,  and  welcome,"  said  Sylvia. 
"Now,  I'll  put  supper  on  the  table,  and  we'll  eat  it. 
I  ain't  going  to  wait  any  longer  for  anybody." 

After  Sylvia  had  gone,  with  a  jerk,  out  of  the  room, 
the  two  men  looked  at  each  other.  "Couldn't  you 
give  Allen  a  hint  to  lay  low  to-night,  anyhow?"  whis 
pered  Meeks. 

Henry  shook  his  head.  "They'll  be  sure  to  show 
it  some  way,"  he  replied.  "I  don't  know  what's  got 
into  Sylvia." 

"It  seems  a  pretty  good  sort  of  match,  to  rne." 

"So  it  does  to  me.  Of  course  Rose  has  got  more 
money,  and  I  know  as  well  as  I  want  to  that  Horace 
has  felt  a  little  awkward  about  that;  but  lately  he's 
been  earning  extra  writing  for  papers  and  magazines, 
and  it  was  only  last  Monday  he  told  me  he'd  got  a 
steady  job  for  a  New  York  paper  that  wouldn't  inter 
fere  with  his  teaching.  He  seemed  mighty  tickled 
about  it,  and  I  guess  he  made  up  his  mind  then  to  go 
ahead  and  get  married." 

"Come  to  supper,"  cried  Sylvia,  in  a  harsh  voice, 
from  the  next  room,  and  the  two  men  went  out  at 
once  and  took  their  seats  at  the  table.  Rose's  and 
Horace's  places  were  vacant.  "I'd  like  to  know 
what  they  think,"  said  Sylvia,  dishing  up  the  baked 
beans.  "They  can  eat  the  corn  cold.  It's  just  as 
good  cold  as  it  is  all  dried  up.  Here  it  is  six  o'clock 
and  they  ain't  come  yet." 

"These  are  baked  beans  that  are  baked  beans," 
said  Meeks. 

263 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Yes,  I  always  have  said  that  Sylvia  knows  just 
how  to  bake  beans,"  said  Henry.  "I  go  to  church 
suppers,  and  eat  other  folks'  baked  beans,  but  they 
'ain't  got  the  knack  of  seasoning,  or  something." 

"It's  partly  the  seasoning  and  partly  the  cooking," 
said  Sylvia,  in  a  somewhat  appeased  voice. 

"This  is  brown  bread,  too,"  said  Meeks.  His  flat 
tering  tone  was  almost  fulsome. 

Henry  echoed  him  eagerly.  "Yes,  I  always  feel 
just  the  same  about  the  brown  bread  that  Sylvia 
makes,"  he  said. 

But  the  brown  bread  touched  a  discordant  tone. 

Sylvia  frowned.  "Mr.  Allen  always  wants  it  hot," 
said  she,  "and  it  '11  be  stone  cold.  I  don't  see  where 
they  went  to." 

"Here  they  are  now,"  said  Henry.  He  and  Meeks 
cast  an  apprehensive  glance  at  each  other.  Voices 
were  heard,  and  Horace  and  Rose  entered. 

"Are  we  late?"  asked  Rose.  She  smiled  and 
blushed,  and  cast  her  eyes  down  before  Sylvia's  look 
of  sharp  inquiry.  There  was  a  wonderful  new  beauty 
about  the  girl.  She  fairly  glowed  with  it.  She  was 
a  rose  indeed,  full  of  sunlight  and  dew,  and  holding 
herself,  over  her  golden  heart  of  joy,  with  a  divine 
grace  and  modesty. 

Horace  did  not  betray  himself  as  much.  He  had 
an  expression  of  subdued  triumph,  but  his  face,  less 
mobile  than  the  girl's,  was  under  better  control.  He 
took  his  place  at  the  table  and  unfolded  his  napkin. 

"I  am  awfully  sorry  if  we  have  kept  you  waiting, 
Mrs.  Whitman,'  he  said,  lightly,  as  if  it  did  not  make 
the  slightest  difference  if  she  had  been  kept  waiting. 

Sylvia  had  already  served  Rose  with  baked  beans. 
264 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Now  she  spoke  to  Horace.  "Pass  your  plate  up,  if 
you  please,  Mr.  Allen,"  she  said.  "Henry,  hand 
Mr.  Allen  the  brown  bread.  I  expect  it's  stone  cold." 

"I  like  it  better  cold,"  said  Horace,  cheerfully. 

Sylvia  stared  at  him,  then  she  turned  to  Rose. 
"Where  on  earth  have  you  been?"  she  demanded. 

Horace  answered  for  her.  ' '  We  went  to  walk,  and 
sat  down  under  a  tree  in  the  orchard  and  talked ;  and 
we  hadn't  any  idea  how  the  time  was  passing,"  he 
said. 

Henry  and  Meeks  cast  a  relieved  glance  at  each 
other.  It  did  not  appear  that  an  announcement  was 
to  be  made  that  night.  After  supper,  when  Meeks 
left,  Henry  strolled  down  the  street  a  little  way  with 
him. 

"I'm  thankful  to  have  it  put  off  to-night,  anyhow," 
he  said.  "Sylvia  was  all  wrought  up  about  their 
being  late  to  supper,  and  she  wouldn't  have  got  a 
mite  of  sleep." 

"You  don't  think  anything  will  be  said  to-night  ?" 

"No,  I  guess  not.  I  heard  Sylvia  tell  Rose  she'd 
better  go  to  bed  right  after  supper,  and  Rose  said, 
'Very  well,  Aunt  Sylvia,'  in  that  way  she  has.  I 
never  saw  a  human  being  who  seems  to  take  other 
people's  orders  as  Rose  does." 

"Allen  told  me  he'd  got  to  sit  up  till  midnight  over 
some  writing,"  said  Meeks.  "That  may  have  made 
a  difference  to  the  girl.  Reckon  she  knew  spooning 
was  over  for  to-day." 

Henry  looked  back  at  the  house.  There  were  two 
lighted  windows  on  the  second  floor.  "Rose  is  going 
to  bed,"  he  said.  "That  light's  in  her  room." 

"She  looked   happy  enough  to  dazzle   one  when 

18  265 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

she  came  in,  poor  little  thing,"  said  Meeks.  In  his 
voice  was  an  odd  mixture  of  tenderness,  admiration, 
and  regret.  "You've  got  your  wife,"  he  said,  "but 
I  wonder  if  you  know  how  lonely  an  old  fellow  like 
me  feels  sometimes,  when  he  thinks  of  how  he's  lived 
and  what  he's  missed.  To  think  of  a  girl  having  a 
face  like  that  for  a  man.  Good  Lord!" 

"You  might  have  got  married  if  you'd  wanted  to," 
said  Henry. 

"Of  course;  could  get  married  now  if  I  wanted  to, 
but  that  isn't  the  question.  I  don't  know  what  I'm 
such  a  d — n  fool  as  to  tell  you  for,  only  it's  like  ancient 
history,  and  no  harm  that  I  can  see  for  either  the 
living  or  the  dead.  There  was  a  time  when,  if  Abra- 
hama  White  had  worn  a  face  like  that  for  me — well — 
Poor  girl,  she  got  her  heart  turned  the  way  it  wasn't 
meant  to  go.  She  had  a  mean,  lonesome  life  of  it. 
Sometimes  now,  when  I  go  into  that  house  where  she 
lived  so  many  years,  I  declare,  the  weight  of  the  bur 
den  she  had  to  bear  seems  to  be  on  me.  It  was  a 
cruel  life  for  a  woman,  and  here's  your  wife  wanting 
that  girl  to  live  the  same  way." 

"Wouldn't  she  have  you  after  Susy  got  married?" 
asked  Henry.  The  words  sounded  blunt,  but  his 
voice  was  tender. 

"Didn't  ask  her.  I  don't  think  so.  She  wasn't 
that  kind  of  woman.  It  was  what  she  wanted  or 
nothing  with  her,  always  was.  Guess  that  was  why 
I  felt  the  way  I  did  about  her." 

"She  was  a  handsome  girl." 

* '  Handsome !  This  girl  you've  got  is  pretty  enough, 
but  there  never  was  such  a  beauty  as  Abrahama. 
Sometimes  when  I  call  her  face  back  before  my  eyes, 

266 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

I  declare  it  sounds  like  women's  nonsense,  but  I 
wonder  if  I  haven't  done  better  losing  such  a  woman 
as  that  than  marrying  any  other." 

"She  was  handsome,"  Henry  said  again,  in  his 
tone  of  futile,  wondering  sympathy. 

When  Henry  had  left  Sidney  and  returned  home, 
he  found,  to  his  horror,  that  Sylvia  was  not  down 
stairs.  "She's  up  there  with  the  girl,  and  Rose  '11 
tell  her,"  he  thought,  uneasily.  "She  can't  keep  it 
to  herself  if  she's  alone  with  another  woman." 

He  was  right.  Sylvia  had  followed  the  girl  to  her 
room.  She  was  still  angry  with  Rose,  and  filled  with 
a  vague  suspicion,  but  she  adored  her.  She  was 
hungry  for  the  pleasure  of  unfastening  her  gown,  of 
seeing  the  last  of  her  for  the  day.  When  she  entered 
she  found  Rose  seated  beside  the  window.  The  lamp 
was  not  lit. 

Sylvia  stood  in  the  doorway  looking  into  the  shad 
owy  room.  "Are  you  here?"  she  asked.  She  meant 
her  voice  to  be  harsh,  but  it  rang  sweet  with  tender 
ness. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Sylvia." 

"Where  are  you?" 

"Over  here  beside  the  window." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  setting  in  the  dark  for?" 

"Oh,  I  just  thought  I'd  sit  down  here  a  few  min 
utes.  I  was  going  to  light  the  lamp  soon." 

Sylvia  groped  her  way  to  the  mantel-shelf,  found 
the  china  match-box,  and  struck  a  match.  Then  she 
lit  the  lamp  on  the  bureau  and  looked  at  the  girl. 
Rose  held  her  face  a  little  averted.  The  lighting  of 
the  room  had  blotted  out  for  her  the  soft  indeter- 
minateness  of  the  summer  night  outside,  and  she  was 

267 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

a  little  afraid  to  look  at  Sylvia  with  the  glare  of  the 
lamp  full  upon  her  face. 

"You'll  get  cold  setting  there,"  said  Sylvia;  "be 
sides,  folks  can  look  right  in.  Get  up  and  I'll  un 
hook  your  dress." 

Rose  got  up.  Sylvia  lowered  the  white  window- 
shade  and  Rose  stood  about  for  her  gown  to  be  un 
fastened.  She  still  kept  her  face  away  from  the 
older  woman.  Sylvia  unfastened  the  muslin  bodice. 
She  looked  fondly  at  the  soft,  girlish  neck  when  it  was 
exposed.  Her  lips  fairly  tingled  to  kiss  it,  but  she 
put  the  impulse  sternly  from  her. 

"What  were  you  and  Mr.  Allen  talking  about  so 
long  down  in  the  orchard  ?"  said  she. 

"A  good  many  things — ever  so  many  things,"  said 
Rose,  evasively. 

Sylvia  saw  the  lovely,  slender  neck  grow  crimson. 
She  turned  the  girl  around  with  a  sudden  twist  at 
the  shoulders,  and  saw  the  face  flushing  sweetly 
under  its  mist  of  hair.  She  saw  the  pouting  lips  and 
the  downcast  eyes. 

"Why  don't  you  look  at  me?"  she  said,  in  a  hard 
whisper. 

Rose  remained  motionless. 

"Look  at  me." 

Rose  raised  her  eyelids,  gave  one  glance  at  Sylvia, 
then  she  dropped  them  again.  She  was  all  one  soft, 
rosy  flush.  She  smiled  a  smile  which  she  could  not 
control — a  smile  of  ecstasy. 

Sylvia  turned  deadly  pale.  She  gasped,  and  held 
the  girl  from  her,  looking  at  her  pitilessly.  "You 
don't  mean  it?"  she  exclaimed. 

Then  Rose  spoke  with  a  sudden  burst  of  emotion. 
268 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Oh,  Aunt  Sylvia,"  she  said,  "I  thought  I  wouldn't 
tell  you  to-night.  I  made  him  promise  not  to  tell 
to-night,  because  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  like  it, 
but  I've  got  to.  I  don't  feel  right  to  go  to  bed  and 
not  let  you  know." 

"Then  it's  so?" 

Rose  gave  her  a  glance  of  ineffable  happiness  and 
appeal  for  sympathy. 

"You  and  him  are  planning  to  get  married?" 

"Not  for  a  year;  not  for  a  whole  year.  He's  ab 
surdly  proud  because  he's  poor,  and  he  wants  to  make 
sure  that  he  can  earn  more  than  his  teacher's  salary. 
Not  for  a  whole  year." 

"You  and  him  are  planning  to  get  married?" 

"I  wasn't  sure  till  this  afternoon,"  Rose  whispered. 
She  put  her  arms  around  Sylvia,  and  tried  to  nestle 
against  her  flat  bosom  with  a  cuddling  movement  of 
her  head,  like  a  baby.  "I  wasn't  sure,"  she  whisper 
ed,  "but  he — told  me,  and — now  I  am  sure." 

Then  Rose  wept  a  little,  softly,  against  Sylvia's 
thin  breast.  Sylvia  stood  like  a  stone.  "Haven't 
you  had  all  you  wanted  here?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Sylvia,  you  know  I  have.  You've 
been  so  good  to  me." 

"I  had  got  my  plans  made  to  put  in  a  bath 
room,"  said  Sylvia.  "I've  got  the  carpenters  en 
gaged,  and  the  plumber.  They  are  going  to  begin 
next  week." 

"You've  been  as  good  as  can  be  to  me,  Aunt 
Sylvia." 

"And  I'm  on  the  lookout  for  a  carriage  and  horse 
you  can  drive,  and  I've  been  planning  to  have  some 
parties  for  you.  I've  tried  to  think  of  everything 

269 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

that  would  make  you  feel  happy  and  contented  and 
at  home." 

"Oh,  you  have;  I  know  you  have,  dear  Aunt 
Sylvia,"  murmured  Rose. 

"I  have  done  all  I  knew  how,"  repeated  Sylvia,  in 
a  stony  fashion.  She  put  the  girl  gently  away  and 
turned  to  go,  but  Rose  caught  her  arm. 

"  Aunt  Sylvia,  you  aren't  going  like  this!"  she  cried. 
"I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  like  it,  though  I  don't 
know  why.  It  does  seem  that  Horace  is  all  you 
could  ask,  if  I  were  your  very  own  daughter." 

"You  are  like  my  very  own  daughter,"  said  Sylvia, 
stiffly. 

"Then  why  don't  you  like  Horace?" 

"I  never  said  anything  against  him." 

"Then  why  do  you  look  so?" 

Sylvia  stood  silent. 

"You  won't  go  without  kissing  me,  anyway,  will 
you?"  sobbed  Rose. 

This  time  she  really  wept  with  genuine  hurt  and 
bewilderment. 

Sylvia  bent  and  touched  her  thin,  very  cold  lips 
to  Rose's.  "Now  go  to  bed,"  she  said,  and  moved 
away,  and  was  out  of  the  room  in  spite  of  Rose's 
piteous  cry  to  her  to  come  back. 

Henry,  after  he  had  entered  the  house  and  dis 
covered  that  Sylvia  was  up-stairs  with  Rose,  sat 
down  to  his  evening  paper.  He  tried  to  read,  but 
could  not  get  further  than  the  glaring  headlines  about 
a  kidnapping  case.  He  was  listening  always  for 
Sylvia's  step  on  the  stair. 

At  last  he  heard  it.  He  turned  the  paper,  with  a 
loud  rustle,  to  the  continuation  of  the  kidnapping 

270 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

case  as  she  entered  the  room.  He  did  not  even  look 
up.  He  appeared  to  be  absorbed  in  the  paper. 

Sylvia  closed  the  hall  door  behind  her  noiselessly; 
then  she  crossed  the  room  and  closed  the  door  leading 
into  the  dining-room.  Henry  watched  her  with 
furtive  eyes.  He  was  horribly  dismayed  without 
knowing  why.  When  Sylvia  had  the  room  completely 
closed  she  came  close  to  him.  She  extended  her 
right  hand,  and  he  saw  that  it  contained  a  little  sheaf 
of  yellowed  newspaper  clippings  pinned  together. 

"Henry  Whitman,"  said  she. 

"Sylvia,  you  are  as  white  as  a  sheet.  What  on 
earth  ails  you?" 

"Do  you  know  what  has  happened?" 

Henry's  eyes  fell  before  her  wretched,  questioning 
ones.  "What  do  you  mean,  Sylvia?"  he  said,  in  a 
faint  voice. 

"Do  you  know  that  Mr.  Allen  and  Rose  have  come 
to  an  understanding  and  are  going  to  get  married?" 

Henry  stared  at  her. 

"She  has  just  told  me,"  said  Sylvia.  "Here  I 
have  done  everything  in  the  world  I  could  for  her 
to  make  her  contented." 

"Sylvia,  what  on  earth  makes  you  feel  so?  She 
is  only  going  to  do  what  every  girl  who  has  a  good 
chance  does — what  you  did  yourself." 

"Look  at  here,"  said  Sylvia,  in  an  awful  voice. 

"What  are  they?" 

"I  found  them  in  a  box  up  in  the  garret.  They 
were  cut  from  newspapers  years  ago,  when  Rose 
was  nothing  but  a  child,  just  after  her  mother  died." 

"What  are  they?     Don't  look  so,  Sylvia." 

"Here,"  said  Sylvia,  and  Henry  took  the  little 
271 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

yellow  sheaf  of  newspaper  clippings,  adjusted  his 
spectacles,  moved  the  lamp  nearer,  and  began  to 
read. 

He  read  one,  then  he  looked  at  Sylvia,  and  his  face 
was  as  white  as  hers.  "Good  God!"  he  said. 

Sylvia  stood  beside  him,  and  their  eyes  remained 
fixed  on  each  other's  white  face.  "I  suppose  the 
others  are  the  same,"  Henry  said,  hoarsely. 

Sylvia  nodded.  "Only  from  different  papers.  It's 
terrible  how  alike  they  are." 

"So  you've  had  this  on  your  mind?" 

Sylvia  nodded  grimly. 

"When  did  you  find  them?" 

"We'd  been  living  here  a  few  days.  I  was  up  in 
the  garret.  There  was  a  box." 

Henry  remained  motionless  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  he  sighed  heavily,  rose,  and  took  Sylvia  by  the 
hand.  "Come,"  he  said. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Come." 

Sylvia  followed,  dragging  back  a  little  at  her  hus 
band's  leading  hand,  like  a  child.  They  passed 
through  the  dining-room  into  the  kitchen.  "There's 
a  fire  in  the  stove,  ain't  there?"  said  Henry,  as  they 
went. 

Sylvia  nodded  again.  She  did  not  seem  to  have 
many  words  for  this  exigency. 

Out  in  the  kitchen  Henry  moved  a  lid  from  the 
stove,  and  put  the  little  sheaf  of  newspaper  clippings, 
which  seemed  somehow  to  have  a  sinister  aspect  of 
its  own,  on  the  bed  of  live  coals.  They  leaped  into  a 
snarl  of  vicious  flame.  Henry  and  Sylvia  stood  hand 
in  hand,  watching,  until  nothing  but  a  feathery  heap 

272 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

of  ashes  remained  on  top  of  the  coals.     Then  he  re 
placed  the  lid  and  looked  at  Sylvia. 

"Have  you  got  any  reason  to  believe  that  any 
living  person  besides  you  and  I  knows  anything  about 
this?"  he  asked. 

Sylvia  shook  her  head. 

"Do  you  think  Miss  Parrel  knew?" 

Sylvia  shook  her  head  again. 

"Do  you  think  that  lawyer  out  West,  who  takes 
care  of  her  money,  knows?" 

"No."  Sylvia  spoke  in  a  thin,  strained  voice. 
1 '  This  must  be  what  she  is  always  afraid  of  remem 
bering,"  she  said. 

"Pray  God  she  never  does  remember,"  Henry  said. 
"Poor  little  thing!  Here  she  is  carrying  a  load  on 
her  back,  and  if  she  did  but  once  turn  her  head  far 
enough  to  get  a  glimpse  of  it  she  would  die  of  it.  It's 
lucky  we  can't  see  the  other  side  of  the  moon,  and  I 
guess  it's  lucky  we  haven't  got  eyes  in  the  backs  of 
our  heads." 

"You  wondered  why  I  didn't  want  her  to  get  mar 
ried  to  him,"  said  Sylvia. 

Henry  made  an  impatient  motion.  "Look  here, 
Sylvia,"  he  said.  "I  love  that  young  man  like  my 
own  son,  and  your  feeling  about  it  is  rank  idiocy." 

"And  I  love  her  like  my  own  daughter!"  cried 
Sylvia,  passionately.  "And  I  don't  want  to  feel  that 
she's  marrying  and  keeping  anything  back." 

"Now,  look  here,  Sylvia,  here  are  you  and  I.  We've 
got  this  secret  betwixt  us,  and  we've  got  to  carry  it 
betwixt  us,  and  never  let  any  living  mortal  see  it 
as  long  as  we  both  live ;  and  the  one  that  outlives  the 
other  has  got  to  bear  it  alone,  like  a  sacred  trust." 

273 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Sylvia  nodded.  Henry  put  out  the  kitchen  lamp, 
and  the  two  left  the  room,  moving  side  by  side,  and 
it  was  to  each  of  them  as  if  they  were  in  reality  carry 
ing  with  their  united  strength  the  heavy,  dead  weight 
of  the  secret. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

HENRY,  after  the  revelation  which  Sylvia  had  made 
to  him,  became  more  puzzled  than  ever.  He  had 
thought  that  her  secret  anxiety  would  be  alleviated 
by  the  confidence  she  had  made  him,  but  it  did  not 
seem  to  be.  On  the  contrary,  she  went  about  with 
a  more  troubled  air  than  before.  Even  Horace  and 
Rose,  in  the  midst  of  their  love-dream,  noticed  it. 

One  day  Henry,  coming  suddenly  into  the  sitting- 
room,  found  Rose  on  her  knees  beside  Sylvia,  weeping 
bitterly.  Sylvia  was  looking  over  the  girl's  head 
with  a  terrible,  set  expression,  as  if  she  were  looking 
at  her  own  indomitable  will.  For  the  first  time 
Henry  lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  Sylvia  was  a  woman. 
He  seemed  to  see  her  as  a  separate  human  soul, 
sexless  and  free,  intent  upon  her  own  ends,  which 
might  be  entirely  distinct  from  his,  and  utterly  un 
known  to  him. 

Rose  turned  her  tear- wet  face  towards  him.  "Oh, 
Uncle  Henry,"  she  sobbed,  "Aunt  Sylvia  is  worrying 
over  something,  and  she  won't  tell  me." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Henry. 

"Yes,  she  is.  Horace  and  I  both  know  she  is. 
She  won't  tell  me  what  it  is.  She  goes  about  all  the 
time  with  such  a  dreadful  face,  and  she  won't  tell  me. 
Oh,  Aunt  Sylvia,  is  it  because  you  don't  want  me  to 
marry  Horace?" 

275 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Sylvia  spoke,  hardly  moving  her  thin  lips.  "I 
have  nothing  whatever  against  your  marriage,"  she 
said.  "I  did  think  at  first  that  you  were  better  off 
as  you  were,  but  now  I  don't  feel  so." 

"But  you  act  so."  Rose  stumbled  to  her  feet  and 
ran  sobbing  out  of  the  room. 

Henry  turned  to  his  wife,  who  sat  like  a  statue. 
"Sylvia,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  he 
said,  in  a  bewildered  tone.  "Here  you  are  taking 
all  the  pleasure  out  of  that  poor  child's  little  love- 
affair,  going  about  as  you  do." 

"There  are  other  things  besides  love-affairs,"  said 
Sylvia,  in  a  strange,  monotonous  tone,  almost  as  if 
she  were  deaf  and  dumb,  and  had  no  knowledge  of 
inflections.  "There  are  affairs  between  the  soul  and 
its  Maker  that  are  more  important  than  love  betwixt 
men  and  women." 

Sylvia  did  not  look  at  Henry.  She  still  gazed 
straight  ahead,  with  that  expression  of  awful  self- 
review.  The  thought  crossed  Henry's  mind  that 
she  was  more  like  some  terrible  doll  with  a  mechanical 
speech  than  a  living  woman.  He  went  up  to  her  and 
took  her  hands.  They  were  lying  stiffly  on  her  lap, 
in  the  midst  of  soft  white  cambric  and  lace — some 
bridal  lingerie  which  she  was  making  for  Rose.  "Look 
here,  Sylvia,"  said  Henry,  "you  don't  mean  that  you 
are  fretting  about — what  you  told  me?" 

"No,"  said  Sylvia,  in  her  strange  voice. 

"Then  what—?" 

Sylvia  shook  off  his  hands  and  rose  to  her  feet. 
Her  scissors  dropped  with  a  thud.  She  kept  the 
fluffy  white  mass  over  her  arm.  Henry  picked  up 
the  scissors.  "Here  are  your  scissors,"  said  he. 

276 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Sylvia  paid  no  attention.  She  was  looking  at  him 
with  stern,  angry  eyes. 

"What  I  have  to  bear  I  have  to  bear,"  said  she. 
"It  is  nothing  whatever  to  you.  It  is  nothing  what 
ever  to  any  of  you.  I  want  to  be  let  alone.  If  you 
don't  like  to  see  my  face,  don't  look  at  it.  None  of 
you  have  any  call  to  look  at  it.  I  am  doing  what  I 
think  is  right,  and  I  want  to  be  let  alone." 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Henry  standing 
with  her  scissors  in  his  hand. 

After  supper  that  night  he  could  not  bear  to  re 
main  with  Sylvia,  sewing  steadily  upon  Rose's  wed 
ding  finery,  and  still  wearing  that  terrible  look  on  her 
face.  Rose  and  Horace  were  in  the  parlor.  Henry 
went  down  to  Sidney  Meeks's  for  comfort. 

"Something  is  on  my  wife's  mind,"  he  told  Sidney, 
when  the  two  men  were  alone  in  the  pleasant,  untidy 
room. 

"Do  you  think  she  feels  badly  about  the  love- 
affair?" 

"She  says  that  isn't  it,"  replied  Henry,  gloomily, 
"but  she  goes  about  with  a  face  like  grim  death,  and 
I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it." 

"She'll  tell  finally." 

"I  don't  know  whether  she  will  or  not." 

"Women  always  do." 

"I  don't  know  whether  she  will  or  not." 

"She  will." 

Henry  remained  with  Meeks  until  quite  late. 
Sylvia  sewed  and  sewed  by  her  sitting-room  lamp. 
Her  face  never  relaxed.  She  could  hear  the  hum  of 
voices  across  the  hall. 

After  awhile  the  door  of  the  parlor  was  flung  vio- 
277 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

lently  open,  and  she  heard  Horace's  rushing  step  upon 
the  stair.  Then  Rose  came  in,  all  pale  and  tearful. 

"I  have  told  him  I  couldn't  marry  him,  Aunt 
Sylvia,"  she  said. 

Sylvia  looked  at  her.  "Why  not?"  she  asked, 
harshly. 

"I  can't  marry  him  and  have  you  feel  so  dread 
fully  about  it." 

"Who  said  I  felt  dreadfully  about  it?" 

"Nobody  said  so;  but  you  look  so  dreadfully." 

"I  can't  help  my  looks.  They  have  nothing  what 
ever  to  do  with  your  love-affairs." 

"You  say  that  just  to  pacify  me,  I  know,"  said 
Rose,  pitifully. 

"You  don't  know.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
have  dismissed  him?" 

"Yes,  and  he  is  horribly  angry  with  me,"  moaned 
Rose. 

"I  should  think  he  would  be.  What  right  have 
you  to  dismiss  a  man  to  please  another  woman,  who 
is  hardly  any  relation  to  you?  I  should  think  he 
would  be  mad.  What  did  he  do  ?" 

"He  just  slammed  the  door  and  ran." 

Sylvia  laid  her  work  on  the  table  and  started  out 
of  the  room  with  an  angry  stride. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Rose,  feebly,  but 
she  got  no  reply. 

Soon  Sylvia  re-entered  the  room,  and  she  had 
Horace  by  the  arm.  He  looked  stern  and  bewildered. 
Sylvia  gave  him  a  push  towards  Rose. 

"Now  look  at  here,  both  of  you,"  she  said.  "Once 
for  all,  I  have  got  nothing  to  say  against  your  getting 
married.  I  am  worrying  about  something,  and  it  is 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

nobody's  business  what  it  is.  I  am  doing  right.  I 
am  doing  what  I  know  is  right,  and  I  ain't  going  to 
let  myself  be  persuaded  I  ain't.  I  have  done  all  I 
could  for  Rose,  and  I  am  going  to  do  more.  I  have 
nothing  against  your  getting  married.  Now  I  am 
going  into  the  parlor  to  finish  this  work.  The  lamp 
in  there  is  better.  You  can  settle  it  betwixt  you." 

Sylvia  went  out,  a  long  line  of  fine  lace  trailing  in 
her  wake.  Horace  stood  still  where  she  had  left  him. 
Rose  looked  at  him  timidly. 

"I  didn't  know  she  felt  so,"  she  ventured,  at  last, 
in  a  small  voice. 

Horace  said  nothing.  Rose  went  to  him,  put  her 
hand  through  his  arm,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his 
unresponsive  shoulder.  "I  did  think  it  would  about 
kill  her  if  it  went  on,"  she  whispered.  "  I  think  I  was 
mistaken." 

"And  you  didn't  mind  in  the  least  how  much  I  was 
hurt,  as  long  as  she  wasn't,"  said  Horace. 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"I  must  say  it  did  not  have  that  appearance." 

Rose  wept  softly  against  his  rough  coat-sleeve.  "I 
wanted  to  do  what  was  right,  and  she  looked  so  dread 
fully;  and  I  didn't  want  to  be  selfish, "she  sobbed. 

Horace  looked  down  at  her,  and  his  face  softened. 
"Oh  Rose,"  he  said,  "you  are  all  alike,  you  women. 
When  it  comes  to  a  question  of  right  or  wrong,  you 
will  all  lay  your  best-beloved  on  the  altar  of  sacrifice. 
Your  logic  is  all  wrong,  dear.  You  want  to  do  right 
so  much  that  the  dust  of  virtue  gets  into  your  eyes 
of  love  and  blinds  them.  I  should  come  first  with 
you,  before  your  aunt  Sylvia,  and  your  own  truth  and 
happiness  should  come  first;  but  you  wanted  to  lay 

279 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

them  all  at  her  feet — or,  rather,  at  the  feet  of  your 
conscience." 

"  I  only  wanted  to  do  what  was  right,"  Rose  sobbed 
again. 

"I  know  you  did,  dear."  Horace  put  his  arm 
around  Rose.  He  drew  her  to  a  chair,  sat  down,  and 
took  her  on  his  knee.  He  looked  at  her  almost 
comically,  in  return  for  her  glance  of  piteous  appeal. 

"Don't  laugh  at  me,"  she  whispered. 

Horace  kissed  her.  "I  am  not  laughing  at  you, 
but  at  the  eternal  feminine,  dear,"  he  said.  "There 
is  something  very  funny  about  the  eternal  feminine. 
It  is  so  earnest  on  the  wrong  tack,  and  hurts  itself  and 
others  so  cruelly,  and  gets  no  thanks  for  it." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  don't  like  your 
talking  so  to  me,  Horace.  I  only  meant  to  do  what 
was  right." 

"I  won't  talk  so  any  more,  darling." 

"I  don't  think  I  have  much  of  the  eternal  feminine 
about  me,  Horace." 

"Of  course  not,  sweetheart." 

"I  love  you,  anyway,"  Rose  whispered,  and  put 
up  her  face  to  be  kissed  again,  "and  I  didn't  want  to 
hurt  you.  I  only  wanted  to  do  my  duty." 

"Of  course  you  did,  sweetheart.  But  now  you 
think  your  duty  is  to  marry  me,  don't  you?" 

Rose  laughed,  and  there  was  something  angelic 
and  innocent  about  that  laugh  of  the  young  girl. 
Horace  kissed  her  again,  then  both  started.  "She 
is  talking  to  herself  in  there,"  whispered  Rose.  "Hor 
ace,  what  do  you  suppose  it  is  about?  Poor  Aunt 
Sylvia  must  be  worrying  horribly  about  something. 
What  do  you  think  it  is  ?" 

280 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"I  don't  know,  darling,"  replied  Horace,  soberly. 

They  both  heard  that  lamentable  murmur  of  a 
voice  in  the  other  room,  but  the  doors  were  closed 
and  not  a  word  could  be  understood. 

Sylvia  was  sewing  rapidly,  setting  the  most  delicate 
and  dainty  stitches,  and  all  the  time  she  was  talking 
carrying  on  a  horrible  argument,  as  if  against  some 
invisible  dissenter. 

"Ain't  I  doing  everything  I  can  ?"  demanded  Sylvia. 
"Ain't  I,  I'd  like  to  know?  Ain't  I  bought  every 
thing  I  could  for  her?  Ain't  I  making  her  wedding- 
clothes  by  hand,  when  my  eyes  are  hurting  me  all  the 
time?  Ain't  I  set  myself  aside  and  given  her  up, 
when  God  knows  I  love  her  better  than  if  she  was  my 
own  child?  Ain't  I  doing  everything?  What  call 
have  I  to  blame  myself?  Only  to-day  I've  bought 
a  lot  of  silver  for  her,  and  I'm  going  to  buy  a  lot  more. 
After  the  underclothes  are  done  I'm  going  about  the 
table  linen,  though  she  don't  need  it.  I  ain't  using 
a  mite  of  her  aunt  Abrahama's.  I'm  saving  it  all  for 
her.  I'm  saving  everything  for  her.  I've  made  my 
will  and  left  all  her  aunt's  property  to  her.  What 
have  I  done?  I'm  doing  right;  I  tell  you  I'm  doing 
right.  I  know  I'm  doing  right.  Anybody  that  says 
I  ain't,  lies.  They  lie,  I  say.  I'm  doing  right.  I — " 

Henry  opened  the  door.  He  had  just  returned 
from  Sidney  Meeks's.  Sylvia  was  sewing  quietly. 

Henry  looked  around  the  room.  "Why,  who  were 
you  talking  to?"  he  asked. 

"Nobody,"  replied  Sylvia,  taking  another  stitch. 

"I  thought  I  heard  you  talking." 

"How  could  I  be  talking  when  there  ain't  anybody 
here  to  talk  to?" 

281 


CHAPTER  XX 

IT  was  not  quite  a  year  afterwards  that  the  wedding- 
day  of  Rose  and  Horace  was  set.  It  was  July,  shortly 
after  the  beginning  of  the  summer  vacation.  The 
summer  was  very  cool,  and  the  country  looked  like 
June  rather  than  July.  Even  the  roses  were  not 
gone. 

The  wedding  was  to  be  in  the  evening,  and  all  day 
long  women  worked  decorating  the  house.  Rose 
had  insisted  on  being  married  in  the  old  White  home 
stead.  She  was  to  have  quite  a  large  wedding,  and 
people  from  New  York  and  Boston  crowded  the  hotel. 
Miss  Hart  was  obliged  to  engage  three  extra  maids. 
Hannah  Simmons  had  married  the  winter  before. 
She  had  married  a  young  man  from  Alford,  where  she 
now  lived,  and  came  over  to  assist  her  former  mistress. 
Lucinda  had  a  look  of  combined  delight  and  anxiety. 
"It's  almost  as  bad  as  when  they  thought  we'd  com 
mitted  murder,"  she  said  to  Hannah. 

"It  was  queer  how  we  found  that,"  said  Hannah. 

"Hush,"  said  Lucinda.  "You  remember  what  we 
agreed  upon  after  we'd  told  Albion  Bennet  that  we'd 
keep  it  secret." 

"Of  course  I  remember,"  said  Hannah;  "but  there 
ain't  any  harm  in  my  reminding  you  how  queer  it 
was  that  we  found  the  arsenic,  that  the  poor  thing 

282 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

had  been  taking  to  make  her  beautiful  complexion, 
in  her  room." 

"It  was  awful,"  said  Lucinda.  "Poor  soul!  I 
always  liked  her.  People  ought  to  be  contented  with 
what  God  has  given  them  for  complexions." 

"I  wonder  if  she  would  have  looked  very  dreadful 
if  she  hadn't  taken  it,"  Hannah  said,  ruminatingly. 
She  was  passing  the  kitchen  looking-glass  as  she 
spoke,  and  glanced  in  it.  Hannah  considered  that  her 
own  skin  was  very  rough.  "I  suppose,"  said  she, 
"that  it  would  never  have  happened  if  she  had  been 
careful.  I  suppose  lots  of  women  do  use  such  things." 

Lucinda  cast  a  sharp  glance  at  Hannah.  "It's 
downright  wicked  fooling  with  them,"  said  she.  "I 
hope  you  won't  get  any  such  ideas  into  your  head." 

"No,  I  sha'n't,"  replied  Hannah.     "I'm  married." 

"I  heard  pretty  straight  this  morning,"  said  Lucin 
da,  "that  Lucy  Ayres  had  got  married  out  West,  and 
had  done  real  well." 

"I'm  mighty  glad  of  it,"  said  Hannah,  sharply. 
"She  was  crazy  enough  to  get  married  when  she  was 
here." 

Lucinda  echoed  her  as  sharply.  "Guess  you're 
right,"  she  said.  "Albion  Bennet  told  me  some 
things.  I  shouldn't  think  she'd  make  much  of  a  wife, 
if  she  has  got  a  pretty  face." 

"She's  just  the  kind  to  settle  down  and  be  a  real 
sensible  woman,  after  she's  found  out  that  she's  on 
the  earth  and  not  in  the  clouds,"  returned  Hannah, 
with  an  air  of  wisdom. 

Then  Albion  Bennet  came  into  the  kitchen  for  some 
hot  water  for  shaving.  He  was  going  to  the  wedding, 
and  had  closed  his  store  early,  and  was  about  to 

283 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

devote  a  long  time  to  preparations.  Lucinda,  also, 
was  going.  She  had  a  new  black  silk  for  the  occasion. 

When  Albion  left  the  kitchen  he  beckoned  her  to 
follow  him.  She  made  an  excuse  and  went  out  into 
the  corridor.  "What  is  it?"  she  said  to  Albion, 
who  was  waiting,  holding  his  pitcher  of  hot  water. 

"Nothing,"  said  he,  "only  I  was  over  to  Alford 
this  morning  and — I  bought  some  violets.  I  thought 
you'd  like  to  wear  them  to  the  wedding." 

Lucinda  stared  at  him.     "What  for?"  asked  she. 

Albion  fidgeted  and  his  pitcher  of  hot  water  tilted. 

"Look  out,  you're  spilling  the  water,"  said  Lu 
cinda.  "What  for?" 

"I — thought  you  might  like  to  wear  them,  you 
know,"  said  Albion.  He  had  never  before  given 
violets  to  a  woman,  and  she  had  never  had  any  given 
her  by  a  man. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  faintly. 

"I've  ordered  a  hack  to  come  for  me  at  half -past 
seven,  and — I  thought  maybe  you'd  like  to  ride  with 
me,"  said  Albion,  further. 

Lucinda  stared.     "What  for?"  she  said  again. 

"I  thought  you  might  like  to  ride." 

Then  Lucinda  colored.  "Why,  folks  would  talk," 
said  she. 

"Let  them.     I  don't  care;   do  you?" 

"Albion  Bennet,  I'm  a  lot  older  than  you.  I  ain't 
old  enough  to  be  your  mother,  but  I'm  a  good  deal 
older  than  you." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Albion.  "I  know  how  old 
you  are.  I  don't  care.  I'd  enough  sight  rather  have 
you  than  those  young  things  that  keep  racing  to  my 
store.  When  I  get  you  I  shall  know  what  I've  got, 

284 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

and  when  I've  got  them  I  shouldn't  know.  I'd  rather 
have  heavy  bread,  or  dry  bread,  and  know  it  was 
bread,  than  new-fangled  things  that  ain't  a  mite 
more  wholesome,  and  you  don't  know  what  you've 
got.  I  don't  know  how  you  feel,  Lucinda,  but  I  ain't 
one  who  could  ever  marry  somebody  he  hadn't  sum 
mered  and  wintered.  I've  summered  and  wintered 
you,  and  you've  summered  and  wintered  me.  I  don't 
know  how  much  falling  in  love  there  is  for  either  of 
us,  but  I  reckon  we  can  get  on  together  and  have  a 
good  home,  and  that's  what  love-making  has  to  wind 
up  in,  if  the  mainspring  don't  break  and  all  the  works 
bust.  I'm  making  quite  a  little  lot  from  my  store. 
I  suppose  maybe  the  soda  and  candy  trade  will  fall 
off  a  little  if  I  get  married,  but  if  it  does  I  can  take  a 
young  clerk  to  draw  it.  You  won't  have  to  work  so 
hard.  You  can  let  some  of  this  big  hotel,  and  keep 
rooms  enough  for  us,  and  I'll  hire  a  girl  for  the  kitchen 
and  you  can  do  fancy-work." 

"Land!"  said  Lucinda.  "I  can  do  the  work  for 
only  two." 

"You're  going  to  have  a  hired  girl,"  said  Albion, 
firmly.  "I  know  of  one  I  can  get.  She's  a  real  good 
cook.  Are  you  going  in  the  hack  with  me,  Lucinda  ?" 

Lucinda  looked  up  at  him,  and  her  face  was  as  the 
face  of  a  young  girl.  She  had  never  had  an  offer,  nor 
a  lover.  Albion  Bennet  looked  very  dear  to  her. 

"Good  land!"  said  Albion,  "you  act  as  if  you  were 
a  back  number,  Lucinda.  You  look  as  young  as 
lots  of  the  young  women.  You  don't  do  up  your 
hair  quite  like  the  girls  that  come  for  soda  and  candy, 
but  otherwise — " 

"I  can  do  up  my  hair  like  them,  if  I  want  to,"  said 

285 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Lucinda.  "It's  thick  enough.  I  suppose  I  'ain't 
fussed  because  I  didn't  realize  that  anybody  but 
myself  ever  thought  about  it  one  way  or  the  other." 

"Then  you'll  go  in  the  hack?"  said  Albion. 

Lucinda  made  a  sudden,  sharp  wheel  about.  "  I 
sha'n't  get  ready  to  go  in  a  hack  if  I  don't  hurry  and 
get  these  biscuits  made  for  supper,"  said  she,  and 
was  gone. 

It  is  odd  how  individuality  will  up  rear  itself  before 
its  own  consciousness,  in  the  most  adverse  circum 
stances.  Few  in  all  the  company  invited  to  the 
wedding  wasted  a  thought  upon  Albion  Bennet  and 
Lucinda  Hart,  but  both  felt  as  if  they  were  the  prin 
cipal  figures  of  it  all.  Lucinda  really  did  merit  atten 
tion.  She  had  taken  another  r61e  upon  her  stage  of 
life.  The  change  in  her  appearance  savored  of  magic. 
Albion  kept  looking  at  her  as  if  he  doubted  his  very 
eyes.  Lucinda  did  not  wear  the  black  silk  which  she 
had  made  for  the  occasion.  She  had  routed  out  an 
old  lavender  satin,  which  she  had  worn  years  ago 
and  had  laid  aside  for  mourning  when  her  father  died. 
It  was  made  in  one  of  those  quaint  styles  which  defy 
fashion.  Lucinda  had  not  changed  as  to  her  figure. 
She  hesitated  a  little  at  the  V-shape  of  the  neck. 
She  wondered  if  she  really  ought  not  to  fill  that  in 
with  lace,  but  she  shook  her  head  defiantly,  and  fast 
ened  around  her  neck  a  black  velvet  ribbon  with  a 
little  pearl  pin.  Then  she  tucked  Albion's  violets  in 
the  lavender  satin  folds  of  her  waist.  Her  hair  was 
still  untouched  with  gray,  and  she  had  spoken  the 
truth  when  she  had  said  she  could  arrange  it  like  a 
girl.  She  had  puffed  it  low  over  her  temples  and 
given  it  a  daring  twist  in  the  back, 

286 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

Albion  fairly  gasped  when  he  saw  her.  "Lord!" 
said  he,  "why  ain't  you  been  for  candy  and  soda  to 
the  store,  too?" 

Few  people  at  the  wedding  noticed  Lucinda  and 
Albion,  but  they  noticed  each  other  to  that  extent 
that  all  save  themselves  seemed  rather  isolated  from 
them.  Albion  whispered  to  Lucinda  that  she  would 
make  a  beautiful  bride,  and  she  looked  up  at  him, 
and  they  were  in  love. 

They  stood  well  back.  Neither  Lucinda  nor  Al 
bion  were  pushing.  Lucinda  considered  that  her 
wonderful  city  boarders  belonged  in  the  front  ranks, 
and  Albion  shared  her  opinion.  It  was  a  beau 
tiful  wedding.  The  old  hotise  was  transformed  into 
a  bower  with  flowers  and  vines.  Musicians  played 
in  the  south  room,  which  was  like  a  grove  with  palms. 
There  was  a  room  filled  with  the  wedding-presents, 
and  the  glitter  of  cut  glass  and  silver  seemed  almost 
like  another  musical  effect. 

The  wedding  was  to  be  at  eight  o'clock.  Every 
body  was  there  before  that  time.  Meeks  and  Henry 
stood  together  in  the  hall  by  the  spiral  staircase, 
which  was  wound  with  flowers  and  vines.  Henry 
wore  a  dress- suit  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  Meeks 
wore  an  ancient  one,  in  which  he  moved  gingerly. 
"I  believe  I  weigh  fifty  pounds  more  than  I  did  when 
the  blamed  thing  was  made,"  he  said  to  Henry,  "and 
the  broadcloth  is  as  thin  as  paper.  I'm  afraid  to 
move." 

Henry  looked  very  sober.  "What's  the  matter, 
Henry?"  asked  Sidney. 

"It's  Sylvia." 

" Sylvia?    I  thought— " 
287 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

"Yes,  I  thought,  too,  that  she  had  got  what  was  on 
her  mind  off  it,  but  she  hasn't.  I  don't  know  what 
ails  her.  She  ain't  herself.  I'm  worried  to  death 
about  her." 

Then  the  wedding-march  was  played  and  the  bridal 
party  came  down  the  stairs.  Rose  was  on  the  arm 
of  the  lawyer  who  had  acted  as  her  trustee.  He  was 
to  give  her  away.  The  task  had  been  an  impossible 
one  for  Henry  to  undertake,  although  he  had  been  the 
first  one  thought  of  by  Rose.  Henry  had  told  Meeks, 
and  the  two  had  chuckled  together  over  it.  "The 
idea  of  a  man  from  a  shoe-shop  giving  away  a  bride 
in  real  lace  at  a  swell  wedding,"  said  Henry. 

"She  was  the  right  sort  to  ask  you,  though,"  said 
Meeks. 

"Bless her  little  heart,"  said  Henry,  "she  wouldn't 
care  if  Uncle  Henry  smelled  strong  enough  of  leather 
to  choke  out  the  smell  of  the  flowers.  But  I  ain't 
going  to  make  a  spectacle  of  myself  at  my  time  of 
life.  If  I  stand  that  dress-suit  I  shall  do  well.  Sylvia 
is  going  to  wear  black  lace  with  a  tail  to  it.  I  know 
somebody  will  step  on  it." 

Sylvia,  in  her  black  lace,  came  down  the  stairs  in 
the  wake  of  the  bridal  party.  She  did  not  seem  to 
see  her  husband  as  she  passed  him. 

"By  Jove!"  said  the  lawyer,  in  a  whisper.  "What 
does  ail  her,  Henry?  She  looks  as  if  she  was  going 
to  jump  at  something." 

Henry  did  not  answer.  He  made  his  way  as  quick 
ly  as  possible  after  Sylvia,  and  Sidney  kept  with  him. 

Horace  and  Rose,  in  her  bridal  white,  stood  before 
the  clergyman.  The  music  had  ceased.  The  clergy 
man  opened  his  mouth  to  begin  the  wedding- service, 

283 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

when  Sylvia  interrupted  him.  She  pushed  herself 
like  a  wedge  of  spiritual  intent  past  the  bridal  pair 
and  the  bridesmaids  and  best  man,  and  stood  beside 
the  clergyman.  He  was  a  small,  blond  man,  nat 
urally  nervous,  and  he  fairly  trembled  when  Sylvia 
put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  spoke. 

"I  have  something  to  say,"  said  she,  in  a  thin, 
strained  voice.  "You  wait." 

The  clergyman  looked  aghast  at  her.  People 
pressed  forward,  craning  their  necks  to  hear  more 
distinctly.  Some  tittered  from  nervousness.  Henry 
made  his  way  to  his  wife's  side,  but  she  pushed  him 
from  her. 

"No,"  she  said.  "Stand  back,  Henry,  and  listen 
with  the  others.  You  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
You  ain't  concerned  in  it." 

Then  she  addressed  the  assembly.  "This  man, 
my  husband,"  she  said,  "has  known  nothing  of  it. 
I  want  you  all  to  understand  that  before  I  begin." 
Sylvia  fumbled  in  the  folds  of  her  black  lace  skirt, 
while  the  people  waited.  She  produced  a  roll  of 
paper  and  held  it  up  before  them.  Then  she  began 
her  speech. 

"I  want,"  said  she,  "before  all  this  company, 
before  my  old  friends,  and  the  friends  of  these  two 
young  people  who  are  about  to  be  married,  to  make 
my  confession.  I  have  not  had  the  courage  before. 
I  have  courage  now,  and  this  is  the  fitting  time  and 
place,  since  it  metes  out  the  fittest  punishment  and 
shame  to  me,  who  deserve  so  much.  You  have  as 
sembled  here  to-night  thinking  that  you  were  to  be 
at  my  house  at  this  wedding.  It  is  not  so.  It  is 
not  my  house.  None  of  this  property  is  mine.  I 

289 


THE    SHOULDERS   OF   ATLAS 

have  known  it  was  not  mine  since  a  little  while  after 
we  came  to  live  here.  I  have  known  it  all  belonged 
to  Rose  Fletcher,  Abrahama  White's  own  niece. 
After  Rose  came  to  live  with  us,  I  tried  to  put  salve 
on  my  conscience  by  doing  every  single  thing  I  could 
for  her.  When  my  husband  went  to  work  again,  I 
spent  every  cent  that  came  from  her  aunt's  property 
on  Rose.  I  gave  her  all  her  aunt's  jewelry.  I  tried 
to  salve  over  my  conscience  and  make  it  seem  right — 
what  I  had  done,  what  I  was  doing.  I  tried  to  make 
it  seem  right  by  telling  myself  that  Rose  had  enough 
property  of  her  own  and  didn't  need  this,  but  I  couldn't 
do  it.  I  have  been  in  torment,  holding  wealth  that 
didn't  belong  to  me,  that  has  gnawed  at  my  very 
heart  all  the  time.  Now  I  am  going  to  confess. 
Here  is  Abrahama  White's  last  will  and  testament. 
I  found  it  in  a  box  in  the  garret  with  some  letters. 
Abrahama  wrote  letters  to  her  sister  asking  her  to 
forgive  her,  and  telling  her  how  sorry  she  was,  and 
begging  her  to  come  home,  but  she  never  sent  one  of 
them.  There  they  all  were.  She  had  tried  to  salve 
her  conscience  as  I  have  tried  to  salve  mine.  She 
couldn't  do  it,  either.  She  had  to  give  it  up,  as  I  am 
doing.  Then  she  made  her  will  and  left  all  her  prop 
erty  to  Rose." 

Sylvia  unfolded  the  roll  of  paper  and  began  reading. 
The  will  was  very  short  and  concise.  It  was  as 
follows: 

"  I,  Abrahama  White,  being  in  sound  mind  and  under 
standing,  and  moved  thereunto  by  a  desire  to  make  my 
peace  with  God  for  my  sins  before  I  give  up  this  mortal 
flesh,  declare  this  to  be  my  last  will  and  testament.  I  give 
3-nd  bequeath  to  my  niece,  Rose  Fletcher^  the  daughter  of 

290 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

my  beloved  sister,  deceased,  my  entire  property,  real  and 
personal,  to  her  and  her  heirs  forever.  And  I  hereby  ap 
point  Sidney  Meeks,  Esquire,  as  my  executor. 

"  (Signed)  ABRAHAMA  WHITE." 

Sylvia  read  the  will  in  her  thin,  strained  voice,  very 
clearly.  Every  word  was  audible.  Then  she  spoke 
again.  "I  have  kept  it  secret  all  this  time,"  said  she. 
"My  husband  knew  nothing  of  it.  I  kept  it  from 
him.  I  tried  to  hide  from  God  and  myself  what  I 
was  doing,  but  I  could  not.  Here  is  the  will,  and  Miss 
Rose  Fletcher,  who  stands  before  you,  about  to  be 
united  to  the  man  of  her  choice,  is  the  owner  of  this 
house  and  land  and  all  the  property  which  goes  with 
it." 

She  stopped.  There  was  a  tense  silence.  Then 
Sidney  Meeks  spoke.  "Mrs.  Whitman,"  he  said, 
"may  I  trouble  you  for  the  date  of  that  document 
you  hold,  and  also  for  the  names  of  the  witnesses?" 

Sylvia  looked  at  Sidney  in  bewilderment,  then  she 
scrutinized  the  will.  "I  don't  see  any  date,"  she 
said,  at  last,  "and  there  is  no  name  signed  except 
just  Abrahama's." 

Meeks  stepped  forward.  "Ladies  and  gentlemen," 
he  said,  "Mrs.  Whitman  has,  I  am  pleased  to  say, 
been  under  quite  unnecessary  anxiety  of  spirit.  The 
document  which  she  holds  is  not  valid.  It  is  neither 
dated  nor  signed.  I  have  seen  it  before.  The 
deceased  lady,  Miss  Abrahama  White,  called  me  in 
one  morning,  shortly  before  her  death,  and  showed 
me  this  document,  which  she  had  herself  drawn  up, 
merely  to  make  her  wishes  clear  to  me.  She  instruct 
ed  me  to  make  out  a  will  under  those  directions,  and 
I  was  to  bring  it  to  her  for  her  signature,  and  produce 

291 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

the  proper  witnesses.  Then,  the  next  day,  she  called 
me  in  to  inform  me  that  there  had  been  a  change 
in  her  plans  since  she  had  heard  of  her  niece's  hav 
ing  a  fortune,  and  gave  me  directions  for  the  later 
will,  which  was  properly  made  out,  signed,  witness 
ed,  and  probated  after  Miss  White's  decease.  Mrs. 
Whitman  is  the  rightful  heir ;  but  since  she  has  labored 
under  the  delusion  that  she  was  not,  I  am  sure  we  all 
appreciate  her  courage  and  sense  of  duty  in  making  the 
statement  which  you  have  just  heard  from  her  lips." 

Sylvia  looked  at  the  lawyer,  and  her  face  was 
ghastly.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  have  been 
thinking  I  was  committing  theft,  when  I  wasn't,  all 
this  time?"  said  she. 

"I  certainly  do." 

Henry  went  to  Sylvia  and  took  hold  of  her  arm,  but 
she  did  not  seem  to  heed  him.  "I  was  just  as  guilty," 
said  she,  firmly,  "for  I  had  the  knowledge  of  sin  in 
my  heart  and  I  held  it  there.  I  was  just  as  guilty." 

She  stared  helplessly  at  the  worthless  will  which 
she  still  held.  A  young  girl  tittered  softly.  Sylvia 
turned  towards  the  sound.  "There  is  no  occasion  to 
laugh,"  said  she,  "at  one  who  thought  she  was  sinning, 
and  has  had  the  taste  of  sin  in  her  soul,  even  though 
she  was  not  doing  wrong.  The  intention  was  there." 

Sylvia  stopped.  Rose  had  both  arms  around  her, 
and  was  kissing  her  and  whispering.  Sylvia  pushed 
her  gently  away.  "Now,"  she  said  to  the  minister, 
"you  can  go  on  with  your  marrying.  Even  if  Mr. 
Meeks  had  told  me  before  what  he  has  just  told  me 
here  in  your  presence,  I  should  have  had  to  speak  out. 
I've  carried  it  on  my  shoulders  and  in  my  heart  just 
as  long  as  I  could  and  live  and  walk  and  speak  under 

29? 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

it,  let  alone  saying  my  prayers.  I  don't  say  I  haven't 
got  to  carry  it  now,  for  I  have,  as  long  as  I  live;  but 
telling  you  all  about  it  was  the  only  way  I  could  shift 
a  little  of  the  heft  of  it.  Now  I  feel  as  if  the  Lord 
Almighty  was  helping  me  carry  the  burden,  and 
always  would.  That's  all  I've  got  to  say.  Now 
you  can  go  on  with  your  marrying." 

Sylvia  stepped  back.  There  was  a  hush,  then  a 
solemn  murmur  of  one  voice,  broken  at  intervals  by 
other  hushes  and  low  responses. 

When  it  was  over,  and  the  bridal  pair  stood  in  the 
soft  shadow  of  their  bridal  flowers  —  Rose's  white 
garment  being  covered  with  a  lace-like  tracery  of 
vines  and  bride  roses,  and  her  head  with  its  chaplet 
of  orange-blossoms  shining  out  clearly  with  a  white 
radiance  from  the  purple  mist  of  leaves  and  flowers, 
which  were  real,  yet  unreal,  and  might  have  been 
likened  to  her  maiden  dreams — Henry  and  Sylvia  came 
first  to  greet  them. 

Henry's  dress-suit  fitted  well,  but  his  shoulders, 
bent  with  his  life-work  over  the  cutting-table,  al 
ready  moulded  it.  No  tailor  on  earth  could  overcome 
the  terrible,  triumphant  rigidity  of  that  back  fitted 
for  years  to  its  burden  of  toil.  However,  the  man's 
face  was  happy  with  a  noble  happiness.  He  simply 
shook  hands,  with  awkward  solemnity,  with  the  two, 
but  in  his  heart  was  great,  unselfish  exultation. 

"This  man,"  he  was  saying  to  himself,  "has  work 
to  do  that  won't  grind  him  down  and  double  him  up, 
soul  and  body,  like  a  dumb  animal.  He  can  take 
care  of  his  wife,  and  not  let  her  get  bent,  either,  and 
the  Lord  knows  I'm  thankful.'* 

He  felt  Sylvia's  little  nervous  hand  on  his  arm, 
293 


THE    SHOULDERS    OF    ATLAS 

and  a  great  tenderness  for  her  was  over  him.  He 
had  not  a  thought  of  blame  or  shame  on  her  account. 

Instead,  he  looked  at  Rose,  blooming  under  her 
bridal  flowers,  not  so  much  smiling  as  beaming  with  a 
soft,  remote  radiance,  like  a  star,  and  he  said  to  him 
self:  "Thank  the  Lord  that  she  will  never  get  so 
warped  and  twisted  as  to  what  is  right  and  wrong 
by  the  need  of  money  to  keep  soul  and  body  together, 
that  she  will  have  to  do  what  my  wife  has  done,  and 
bear  such  a  burden  on  her  pretty  shoulders." 

It  seemed  to  Henry  that  never,  not  even  in  his 
first  wedded  rapture,  had  he  loved  his  wife  as  he  loved 
her  that  night.  He  glanced  at  her,  and  she  looked 
wonderful  to  him;  in  fact,  there  was  in  Sylvia's  face 
that  night  an  element  of  wonder.  In  it  spirit  was 
manifest,  far  above  and  crowning  the  flesh  and  its 
sordid  needs.  Her  shoulders,  under  the  fine  lace 
gown,  were  bent;  her  very  heart  was  bent;  but  she  saw 
the  goal  where  she  could  lay  her  burden  down. 

The  music  began  again.  People  thronged  around 
the  bride  and  groom.  There  were  soft  sounds  of 
pleasant  words,  gentle  laughs,  and  happy  rejoinders. 
Everybody  smiled.  They  witnessed  happiness  with 
perfect  sympathy.  It  cast  upon  them  rosy  reflec 
tions.  And  yet  every  one  bore,  unseen  or  seen,  the 
burden  of  his  or  her  world  upon  straining  shoulders. 
The  grand,  pathetic  tragedy  inseparable  from  life, 
which  Atlas  symbolized,  moved  multiple  at  the 
marriage  feast,  and  yet  love  would  in  the  end  sanctify 
it  for  them  all. 


THE    END 


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